


The 69th Hunger Games

by Radella_Hardwick



Series: Ares' story [1]
Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Implied Childhood Sexual Abuse, M/M, Triggers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-05
Updated: 2016-01-05
Packaged: 2018-05-12 00:59:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 23
Words: 62,762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5648077
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Radella_Hardwick/pseuds/Radella_Hardwick
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>2 volunteers. 4 warriors. 1 victor.</p><p>Iristina has been surviving by her charms alone for almost a decade. When she volunteers for the 69th Hunger Games, will her allure be enough to bring her home? And why has Gaspar, her childhood tormentor, volunteered too?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sherkate](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Sherkate).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own any of the Hunger Games characters (sigh), places or objects.  
> Everything you recognise from the original trilogy belongs to Suzanne Collins; anything that reminds you of the films probably belongs to the people who made those; and there are probably quotes and quirks borrowed from the myriad books I have read.

She's an orphan, unwanted by anyone in District 9 or outside of it. A charity case sent from the orphanage to the school at 7 and left to run wild in the summers. She's the Urchin Girl, known to all the mill-hands from their walk to work on those hazy summer mornings; she's the Bear Girl, known to all the residents of District 9 from the time she brained a bear with a rock, sold its hide to the mayor's wife and its meat to the black-market traders; and now she will be the Reaped Girl, known to all of Panem.

_I_ _& G_

She has to force herself to wait patiently through Mayor Evander's address: first, giving his lecture on the history of Panem and, then, listing all of District 9's victors. Everyone knows that, in the last 68 years, there have been five and all of them are amazingly still alive, everyone knows that one of those remaining is the victor of the 10th Hunger Games but the mayor still has to enumerate these facts every year. At long last, Siprian Cotton steps up to the unadorned microphone. This year, the escort assigned to District 9 is resplendent in shades of blue: cyan poodle curls, a powder blue suit and, in place of a beard, tattooed waves of a faint blue.

“Oh, let us draw the names of our two brave heroes!” he chortles before proceeding to the great glass bowl filled with the names of all the girls in District 9. Her name is only in there once for each year – after all, it's impossible to claim tesserae without a fixed address and, since she got a fixed address, she hasn't needed the extra share of food – and she is puzzling at the odds of it being her name that is called, when Cotton trills: “Oh, Ashlee Briskman.” She waits as the mayor's niece – who is at the opposite end of the age range to her – walks out of the crowd and up to the stage. As there are no steps, the child has to use her hands to haul herself onto the wooden platform. “Oh, welcome, Ashlee,” beams the blue sycophant before turning to look out over the crowd. “Oh, now, let's see. Are there any volunteers?”

“I volunteer as a tribute!” She is pleased to hear that her voice is firm and loud enough to carry across the whole square. Siprian Cotton peers at where she is standing and she grins – a resident of the fabled Capitol is looking directly at her and, soon, they all will be. She steps out from the crowd of girls – girls she has gone to school with for 11 years – and walks towards the stage. In contrast to his treatment of Ashlee, the escort offers her a hand to mount the stage – treating her like an actual Capitol lady – and draws her to the microphone. By the time she reaches it, the younger girl has disappeared back into the crowd.

“Oh, what's your name?” Siprian Cotton asks.

“My name's Iristina.” She hopes her smile is confident and assured; she wants them to remember her as the daring volunteer, not the scared little girl who begged for bread in the cold dawn light. Cotton thrusts his head towards her as though he expects something more from her.

“Oh, and what's your second name, dear girl?” Her face falls and she casts her eyes down; she hates this question, always has done.

“They call me 'Emmer'.”

“Oh!” breathes the escort and, to her amazement, he draws out a lace-edged handkerchief to dab at his eyes. “Oh, you're an orphan. How terrible!” She puts her shoulders back and stares across the square with her jaw firmly set.

“No… it isn't. Instead of a father and mother, I have a district.” She seeks out Ashlee Briskman's face and forces herself to smile at the pampered little miss whose life she's saving. “I have no family to mourn for me, so I will fight to make my district proud.” Cotton claps his hands and all the people on the platform follow his lead, then those standing in the square. The blue-swathed escort ushers her to one side and then draws a name from the boys' bowl but Gaspar Barjon volunteers, stealing her thunder as usual.

_I_ _& G_

They have known each since Gaspar started school and been fighting since she was 10 and he was 9. Gaspar is the town hero. He is the blacksmith's third son and would have been a nobody – even less of a personality than the Urchin Girl – but, when he was 12, there was a fire at their school and he saved the mayor's only son. No-one cared that Iristina had led two dozen younger kids to safety before the fire cut off their escape route, all anyone remembered was that Gaspar Barjon had gone back in – after initially only saving himself – to get his rich best friend. So, the town thinks he's a hero but she knows better – he's a bully and, despite the fact she's a year older, the Urchin Girl was one of his favourite punching-bags. Of course, all of that had stopped after she had killed that bear and…

“What the bloody hell do you think you're doing?!” roars the Head Peacekeeper as he bursts into the parlour where they have left her to wait before boarding the train. She had wondered if he would come and here he is.

“I'm going to the Capitol,” she retorts, tossing her curtain of dark hair so that it hides one side of her pale face. “What did you expect, Krill? Why should I stay here – being your mistress for nothing but three square meals a day – when I can go into the Hunger Games and be loved by thousands?”

“And what if you die?” He's gripping her by the shoulders, looking into her eyes as though he actually cares.

“Then, at least, I'd be free of _you_ ,” she sneers and pushes him away.

“Iristina–“ he begins but the Capitol Peacekeepers are back and they're escorting her to the train.

_I_ _& G_

Siprian Cotton chatters all the way about how proud he is of his two brave tributes and, she has to admit, that she can not remember an instance of two volunteer tributes from the same outlying district. She and Gaspar will be the toast of the Capitol and she hates him for that but she lets none of this show on her face. When they reach the train station, she is all smiles and waves for the cameras and the throng of reporters who are there to greet them, even when Gaspar – who is ahead of her as he, lacking Cotton's manners, had exited the car first – turns back and shouts:

“Isn't this surreal, Tina?” She shows no sign of her aggravation at his use of that nickname but, instead, grins back at him. Finally, they reach the train door but, as the existing victors board, Iristina and Gaspar stand chatting and joking with the closest reporters. When he slips his arm around her shoulders, she wants to recoil but forces herself to relax into the embrace as she needs the Capitol to love her and no-one loves a surly or rude tribute. When they eventually do board the train, the pair of them turn back to wave through the glass in a move that could have been choreographed. Cotton is there between them, an arm around each set of shoulders. He squeezes them into his sides, kissing Iristina's cheek and making her laugh, before he scuttles off. Gaspar reaches down, takes her hand and, still laughing, she catches his eye; in unison, they raise their joined hands, looking at each other but with wide smiles plastered on for the cameras. They are still gazing into one another's eyes as the train starts to move.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Birthday, Kate  
> I hope Ares is an acceptable present


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own any of the Hunger Games characters (sigh), places or objects.  
> Everything you recognise from the original trilogy belongs to Suzanne Collins; anything that reminds you of the films probably belongs to the people who made those; and there are probably quotes and quirks borrowed from the myriad books I have read.

As soon as the cameras are out of sight, she drops his hand and recoils. After peering over his shoulder to check Cotton isn't coming back, she thrusts her face into his and demands:

“Why did you volunteer?”

“Everything you do, I have to top it, right?” He's still grinning and she wants to punch him in the face.

“You're going to die!” she hisses, not wanting to draw any attention to them.

“You never know!” he laughs, his face glowing with boyish good humour.

“Gaspar, whatever else you might be able to one-up me in, I'm a better fighter than you.”

“Yeah,” he sighs, running a hand through his messy curls. “I know.”

“Oh, so you thought my _compassion_ would make me spare you?”

“No,” he says, swallowing hard. “I want you to kill me.”

“What?!” He catches her elbow and drags her down the corridor in the opposite direction from that in which their escort disappeared. The second door he tries is a drawing-room even more hideous than that of the Briskmans. He leads her over to a mint-green suede sofa and they sit down together.

“Yeah, so I've got this plan… we team up.” She draws back from him and begins to protest. “No– look, I know we've never been the best of friends.” She snorts. “Yeah, alright, I was beastly to you when we were kids but we're not kids anymore. So, we team up and take down everyone else – the Careers, everyone – and then, when the Capitol is on the edge of their seats – wondering what these two best friends, who've made a pact to volunteer together to stop any of the little kids getting reaped, will do – I'll kneel down and ask you to kill me.”

“And why would the Capitol like that?” She can see some sense in what he's saying – the Hunger Games are a TV show and you need a narrative that the audience will buy but she can't see how killing her supposed best friend will endear her to them. He looks her straight in the eye and says:

“Because I'm already dying.”

“What?” This time the disbelieving question is barely a gasp.

“Yeah. I've got this disease in my lungs – from the forge – and the doctor says it'll kill me in less than three years”

“Are you going to cope in the arena?” She hardly wants an ally who could die any minute.

“Yeah, I'm fine. I don't really feel that ill but I'm gonna die – might as well do it on TV.” Suddenly, he's back to being the self-centred jerk that she knows and loathes.

“Fine!” she snaps, throwing up her hands. “So, we're best friends – have been for years – and we made a pact to volunteer to save the younger kids. Do we tell 'em about your disease?”

“No reason ter show our hand, eh?” he grins.

“Right. So, we play up the school fire – you saved the mayor's son–“

“And you saved all them younger kids. Bloody hero.” He sounds sour and she smirks, relieved that they can still be enemies in private.

“Also, if we ain't saying anything about your disease, we ain't saying anything about Krill either, deal?”

“Krill? Who be Krill?” he asks with fake bewilderment. A Peacekeeper opens the door then and looks between the two of them.

“Mr Cotton is looking for you,” he informs them in a flat voice, devoid of intonation.

“We're just coming,” Gaspar assures the stranger with a grin. When they re-emerge into the corridor, their escort is waiting by the door.

“Oh, at last! I was beginning to get quite anxious.”

“Sorry. We'd just been talking strategy,” beams the boy, clapping Cotton on the shoulder.

“Yes,” Iristina adds with a broad smile of her own. “We're going to be allies.” She sets off down the facing corridor with the two males trailing her, Siprian Cotton babbling in half-sentences.

_I_ _& G_

To her open-mouthed astonishment, she is given a huge bedroom to herself with triple-fronted closet. In Krill's house, the only space that had been solely hers was one meagre dresser. They had shared his bedroom, of course, and the attached bathroom and yet here, on a train, she had a whole suite. It feels like she's in paradise and, when she opens the closet, it just gets better. She lets the green dress Krill bought her for her 18th birthday drop to the floor and wonders, idly, how long it will be before he finds another girl with no other options who will do everything he asks for a roof over her head and a full belly every night. She resolves to ignore any of the Capitol clothes in green and eventually settles on a scarlet shirt that leaves her arms bear and tight-fitting black velvet trousers. She is delighted to find a pair of platform heels in black and red to complete the ensemble. When the escort comes to collect her for dinner, he whistles.

“Oh, my dear, you look quite stunning and that's _without_ a prep team.”

“Thank you, Mr Cotton.”

“Oh, no! None of that! You must call me 'Rian' or 'Siprian', if you absolutely insist.” Her face breaks into a broad, unaffected grin. “Oh, come now. The victors are quite anxious to meet you.” He offers her his hand and she takes it, still a little unsteady in the shoes. When they enter the dining-room, Caecilius Durum shoots to his feet, the other two men following him more slowly . “Oh, I must go fetch Gaspar. Please, do get to know everyone,” Siprian prompts before clattering off in his own platform shoes.

“My, my, my. Aren't you a sight?” croons the youngest man present. “Caecilius Durum but do call me 'Cai'.” He takes her hand and kisses it.

“Well, Pyr won't be able to put you in any little girl dresses,” sneers the elder of the two female victors. “Amina Heslot, if you don't know.”

“I do, actually,” Iristina answers with a crocodile smile. “Maura was one of the children I saved from that terrible school fire. I was so sorry when she… died.” Daria Barven and her husband both look aghast; Maura Heslot had been reaped three years before when she was just 12 years old.

“I see you didn't volunteer for her, though,” the grieving mother bites out and the girl forces her face to soften.

“I would if I could have but I was just starving urchin back then.”

“And how is Krill taking your departure?” challenges the elder woman, her eyes narrowing. Iristina is trying to think of some witty and cutting reply when Siprian returns with her district-partner, who has followed their escort's colour scheme by donning tight-fitting cyan trousers and a midnight-blue shirt.

“Starting the introductions without me?” Gaspar teases, slipping an arm around her and kissing her cheek.

“I was just expressing my sympathy over Maura's death,” she answers, repressing a shudder.

“Maura? Not our little blonde angel who you carried from the burning school? I never realised she was the same. Madame Heslot, I am so sorry.” He releases Iristina and steps forward to take one of the woman's hands in both of his. “She was such a delight… lit up the room when she entered it…” She knows it's nonsense – he probably never even met the girl – but, as she's alienated Amina, it makes sense to let Gaspar forge that link in the chain. If they are going to be a team, then it makes no difference if a mentor likes only one of them as both will still benefit. Besides, the other four are all looking at her with interest: Cai's eyes hold sexual desire, Daria's sympathetic compassion, Adolphus' disapproving intrigue and old man Thell is looking at her as though weighing her on some internal scale. He has mentored 116 tributes and four of those have come out alive, so she values his estimation most, even if he is too old to do any personal training anymore. When she had been planning her Hunger Games, she had planned on being mentored by Daria and Adolphus Barven. They are the Capitol's darling power-couple; Daria won her Games only eight years before at the age of 15 – making her one of the youngest victors ever – and, a couple of years ago, married her mentor. These two, like Cai, live in the Capitol and so know nothing about her, unlike Madame Heslot and Mr Thell.

“Oh, let's sit down to dinner.” Siprian claps his hands and Avoxes appear with serving dishes. Gaspar sits himself between Amina Heslot and Cai Durum, who won his Games at the same age Gaspar is now. So, Iristina takes the seat beside Daria and across from Cai, who gives her a wink.

“That young'n, Siprian, tell me ye're having a plan,” squeaks out Gaius Thell from the top of the table, once they have all been served with food.

“Oh, yes!” enthuses Gaspar, flashing that boyish smile around the table. “We been planning this since last Reaping Day.” She's interested to note he has decided to lie to their mentors as well but she'll play along; after all, this plan ends up with her as the victor, so what does she care about the means. “We're gonna be allies and take down all comers.” He sounds so naïve that she has to chuckle.

“It's not that simplistic,” she assures the mentors, who are all looking dubious. “We've known each other for a long time and we've practiced fighting together.” Not exactly a lie, if you count fighting each other as practice for the arena, which she does. “We're both good at hand-to-hand combat and can even fence a bit.”

“And Tina has them there survival skills – she spent years living off the land during the summers – and, o' course, I've got me strength. We ain't completely hopeless,” he adds with an engaging grin.

“I think you are a long way from hopeless,” rumbles Adolphus. “But what will you do if it comes down to just the two of you?” Iristina sets down her cutlery and turns an inquiring look on Gaspar. His grin falters and then returns, looking strained, and she wonders if he's acting or if this is genuine.

“I'm dying,” her district-partner admits in a low voice. “I've got this thing… in me lungs. Doctor say it won't kill me for three year and I'd rather die quick in the arena, knowing me best mate gets ter win.” He looks up at her and gives her a sad smile. Iristina feels herself beginning to believe in this story and she smiles back. Then, for good measure, she reaches across the table and grips his fingers.

“Oh, we can work with that!” beams Siprian. “The Capitol will feel so sorry for you: the dying boy who volunteered to help his best friend.”

“That's not why I volunteered.” His voice is tight with determination and he shakes his head vehemently at the escort. Gaspar looks back at her and she can feel her face twisting into the same expression of sorrow and anger as that visible on his. “We volunteered to stop another pair of babies going into the arena.” Iristina brings the heel of her free palm to her lips to restrain a liquid out-pouring of emotion.

“Excuse me!” She gets up and hurries from the dining-room. It's not all an act; Gaspar's words had conjured up the faces of the last six tributes from District 9. 12-year-old Maura Heslot and her 14-year-old district-partner, the two 13-year-olds from the year after that and the butcher's 14-year-old daughter and the 17-year-old boy with the mind of a child whose names had been drawn last year. She's glad that it's not Gaspar who comes after her. It's one thing to play best friends in front of everyone, it's another to have to deal with her old enemy when she's upset.

“Are you alright?” Daria asks, placing her hand on the girl's shoulder.

“It's just… all those _children_! Madame Heslot's daughter, the butcher's daughter and… How many children am I going to have to kill?” She turns away, disgusted with herself that she could have forgotten that her opponents were just children, probably with families who loved them.

“This life isn't for children,” Daria tells her and Iristina can hear a hollow bleakness in her voice. “Iristina… I'm going to tell you what no-one ever says.” The girl turns to face her chosen mentor. “The arena isn't the worst part. _Surviving_ the arena is the worst part.” Daria is looking into her eyes and Iristina realises she's failing to exhibit the proper reaction but she can't bring herself to care. “I was lucky; Adolphus had already fallen in love with me and the Capitol adore our love story. But it's been hell… watching Finnick. You know who Finnick Odair is?” It's a stupid question as everyone in Panem has heard of the youngest victor in history. “He's only 18 now and, at 14, he was too young to become a victor. Do you know what happens to young and beautiful victors after the Games?” Iristina doesn't want to answer that directly, she doesn't want to betray her coarseness.

“Do you know why Madame Heslot despises me?” she asks, instead. Daria shakes her head, a frown of confusion knitting her brows together. “For the last two years, I've been the Head Peacekeeper's mistress.” She is looking the victor right in the eye and can see the moment when realisation hits the older girl. She can read the surprise as easily as she would read a page of text but Daria refrains from commenting.

“You know, my year, Adolphus was the only one who believed in me, all of the others thought a Career would win it.” Iristina is so relieved that Daria has decided against pushing her for details that she cannot summon up an appropriate response to this. “That's not true this year, we're all betting on you.”

“Only because Gaspar–“

“No! When you volunteered, even before you reached the stage, Gaius leant over and said he thought we had another winner.” She gapes at the mentor and Daria grins in response. “Didn't you know how impressed he was by your killing of that bear?” The young woman shakes her head. “He wouldn't shut up about it. Retold the story every time we saw him for the next year. He even told it to our two tributes their first night on the train. He's so pleased that you're here; not that he'd wish the Hunger Games on anyone, but… oh, you know what I mean!” Iristina nods her head in acceptance of the sentiment, regardless of how convoluted; after all, she has chosen to be here.

“Oh, there you are! The recaps are about to begin,” Siprian calls from the dining-room door, flapping his hands at them in agitation.

“Siprian!” Iristina beams and starts to walk towards him with a good measure of sex appeal transfused into her hips. “Would it be possible for me to have some paper and a… pen?” The escort swallows so hard that she can see his Adam's apple bob, despite the distance that still lies between them.

“Oh… well… that shouldn't be… a problem.” He gulps and then gives a slight shake, which reminds the girl of a hen settling her feathers. “Oh but why?”

“Oh, I have my own scoring system. Developed it years ago. It was very useful for laying bets.”

“You used to bet on the Hunger Games?” gasps Daria from behind her.

“Yes. In fact, the year you won and those either side, my winnings from the Hunger Games were all that kept me from starving.”

“But you were twelve!" Iristina's mouth twists into a bitter smile; Daria's father owns his own field and she had been popular at school, she had never seen the sharp end of life until her Games and, everyone had agreed, her Reaping was a tragedy. “Wait! People in the district were betting against me?”

“No,” the girl chuckles as they approach the room in which she and Gaspar had conferred earlier. “One does not simply bet on the victor. I called the number of tributes to die in the initial bloodbath each year, number of days the Games would last and I even predicted your training score.”

“Why did you bother to predict my wife's training score?” Adolphus is looking at her with a glint of amusement in his eye.

“She was betting on the Hunger Games! At the age of eleven!” The amusement in the middle-aged man's has changed to shock, Madame Heslot's expression to one of disdain, Cai's face has gone carefully blank and Thell is considering her with his head on one side. She shrugs, trying to make her past mean nothing.

“It kept me from starving.” She's aiming for joking dismissal but the mentors do not seem convinced.

“That survival instinct of yours: that's why ye're gonna win,” Gaspar grins, holding out a hand to her and she takes it because that will keep up the fiction of their friendship, not from an over-whelming need for human contact.

“Oh, look! It's starting,” gasps Siprian, passing her the writing materials she requested, and they all turn to the screen. As usual, the Reaping in District 1 starts with a pan across the children, all of whom stand like Peacekeepers on a parade ground. This year's volunteers are a boy who looks like he's all muscles and no brains, and a girl who appears small and slight. Iristina puts the girl into the 'Dangerous' column on her notepad and both of their names under the 'Career Pack' heading. District 2 is much the same, although in this case she suspects that the boy is marginally more dangerous. He looks to be only Gaspar's age and, unusually for 2, he didn't volunteer, it was his name drawn from the bowl. The boy from 3 is a scrawny little thing, one of the youngest, and Iristina pencils him into the 'Bloodbath' column. Both of the tributes from District 4 look incredibly nervous but, as the boy is clapped on the shoulder by a grinning Finnick Odair, she notices that the pair are similarly built and Odair is the youngest victor to-date, so she puts Glaucus on the Dangerous list, too. The pair from 5 are mere babies and both of their names go on the Bloodbath list with the girls from 4 and 6. Iristina watches District 7 more closely; it's been a long time since they won and both of these kids look like underdogs – perfect fodder for the TV event of the year. On the whole, she finds herself more worried by the girl. Viatrix might be one of the youngest but she looks truly manic. The tributes from 8 are far from prepossessing – the boy has to be only 12 and the girl is a clumsy confusion of arms and legs. In their own district's Reaping, Ashlee and Silvanus aren't shown at all. Instead, the audio recordings of Iristina and Gaspar volunteering are played over the film of them stepping out of the crowd. Then, there's Siprian standing at the microphone with them on either side of him – the two of them wearing matching proud smiles – as he announces:

“The tributes for District 9 – Iristina Emmer and Gaspar Barjon.” Finally, they roll the film of the pair standing at the train doorway with broad grins on their faces and their clasped hands raised high. She smirks as she realises they look happier than any of the career tributes did. In fact, she can't remember the last time she saw two tributes who looked so happy to be going into the Games, the Capitol are going to love them. However, she doesn't have long to dwell on thoughts of their impending fame as the film of District 10 begins to roll. Their tributes are betwixt and between all around – middle of the age range, average height, average musculature. They both fall into the 'Wait & See' column. In complete contrast, the tributes from 11 are easy to categorise. The boy is another of the babies and looks like he's ill to boot, so his name goes into the Bloodbath column. On the other hand, the girl is one of the eldest and holds herself with the same poise as a Career, so her name goes down on three lists: Dangerous, Career Pack and Potential Allies.

“It depends on how much of a threat she seems to the Careers but she could make a good ally,” she muses out loud and sees Gaspar give a sharp nod from the corner of her eye.

“I have never had a tribute planning their allies on the train,” observes Adolphus but his voice sounded as though he approved, although Iristina can't tear her eyes away from the screen to observe his expression. As usual, the tributes from District 12 look the worst. Despite the fact this is Reaping Day and everyone dresses in their best, these two kids are grimy and their dark hair looks like it hasn't been washed in a week. The girl reminds Iristina, painfully, of herself before she killed that bear and she hopes the girl will be killed in the bloodbath, so she doesn't have to do it. The boy looks to be her own age but he's all skin and bones, no meat on him at all. It's no wonder 12 only has one living victor but, Iristina remembers, he won during the last Quarter Quell with 47 opponents, so she can't wait to meet him.

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own any of the Hunger Games characters (sigh), places or objects.  
> Everything you recognise from the original trilogy belongs to Suzanne Collins; anything that reminds you of the films probably belongs to the people who made those; and there are probably quotes and quirks borrowed from the myriad books I have read.

Once the anthem ends, someone switches off the TV and she can feel the others re-arranging themselves, while she finishes up her notes.

“So,” Adolphus starts, gently drawing everyone's attention to himself. “What do you think?” She assumes he's speaking to the other victors, so she stays quiet until Gaspar nudges her.

“Oh, you mean me?” The others chuckle and even Madame Heslot cracks a smile.

“Yes, girl with the plan,” beams Cai before winking at her.

“For the record,” grins Iristina. “The plan is all Gaspar; I'm just the one making notes.” That rouses more amusement and she feels better. These people are no longer planning to help simply because that's their job, they're beginning to think of the two tributes as friends, people they like for their own merits. “Well, I think at least seven will die in the initial bloodbath. I know it's normally more than that but, without seeing them in training, I can't be certain of more than seven. The other thing is, I think that – if we weren't in it – this would be a Career year, do you agree?” The victors make sounds of assent as she checks her notes. “Winnow from 11 is the only one who isn't a Career who looks like she might make it through the first day, so – again depending on training – she'd make the best ally.”

“What about that girl from 7?” Gaspar tosses in. “She looks ferocious!”

“She does,” nods Iristina. “Her name is… Viatrix by the way. Thing is, she looks to me like she might go berserk at the bloodbath and not even try to survive past the first day. Maybe she doesn't have any survival skills, maybe she thinks she won't survive a fight against a Career but she looks to me like she's going to try to kill as many people as possible as soon as possible and die trying.” The victors around the room are nodding and Cai gives her another wink, so she thinks she must be doing something right. “What I'm not sure about is our strategy between now and the Games. I mean, two volunteers from an outlying district are an anomaly anyway and we looked so happy about it that we obviously can't play at being weak and vulnerable.” Gaspar nods and the composure of the others convey their agreement.

“So, how d'ya think we oughta be in training and them interviews?” asks her district-partner, going straight to the heart of things. The mentors pause to consider and, eventually, it's Cai who clears his throat.

“I think, in training, you need to be casually confident like the Careers.”

“Yes,” agrees Adolphus, weighing in now the conversation is established. “You don't want to show off your best skills but also don't let yourselves be overawed.” Iristina and Gaspar exchange an amused look – as the Head Peacekeeper's concubine and the mayor's surrogate second son, they are probably the two kids from District 9 least likely to be overawed by the Capitol.

“As for the interviews, that will depend on your scores and your stylists,” Amina Heslot tells them.

“We need ter talk of training,” muses old man Thell. “But can wait fer t'morn. Young'ns need rest and eat proper before going inter there arena.” It sounds like an admonishment but they both recognise the wisdom of his pronouncement and don't object. They bid the mentors and Siprian goodnight before heading to their respective suites.

“Good night, Tina,” Gaspar beams as they reach her door.

“Don't call me that,” she growls. “I hate that name.”

“Well, this is the time to change it. This whole trip is about re-invention.”

“Good night, Gaspar.” Her smile is forced but he acts as though he thinks it's genuine and they part as friends or as close to as they'll ever get. She spends almost twenty minutes flipping through her choices of nightgown before settling on a short-sleeved one of pale yellow cashmere. The over-stuffed duvet she leaves folded across the bottom half of the bed content with the bare, peacock-blue sheets and raised temperature controls.

_I_ _& G_

The next morning, she's woken by a gentle hand on her shoulder and the smell of true coffee. Iristina gives a moan of pleasure and her wake up call chuckles, a distinctly masculine chuckle. She peels open the topmost eye and sees Cai leaning over her.

“It occurred to me that you might not be a morning person,” he teases with a smile that gleams in the grey dawn light.

“Are you sure it is morning?” she groans and he chuckles again.

“Yeah, I know. If I was in the Capitol, I wouldn't be up for another four hours but Siprian woke me half an hour ago and threatened to knock you up, too. I thought that might not be wise. You do sleep with a weapon, don't you?”

“Normally,” she smirks at him. “But I didn't bring anything with me to the Reaping. I'm not that suicidal.”

“I'll see you in the dining-room,” he smiles before kissing her forehead and leaving. However, upon reaching the door, he turns back to her. “I never thought Daria could win, she shouldn't have won, but you… Even without Gaspar, I think you could do it.”

“Thanks, Cai.” This time he does leave and she smiles into her coffee cup; it seems Caecilius Durum is much more susceptible to a pretty face and a sexy walk than the fellow-feeling a boy the same age he was when he won invokes. After finishing her coffee, she pushes open the closet. Disdaining yesterday's clothes and thinking of the cameras that will be waiting for them at the train station, Iristina selects a knee-length white crepe skirt and a long-sleeved amethyst top with a scoop neckline. This ensemble makes her look younger – like a girl heading to a summer picnic – but, with no underwear, her shimmering chestnut hair loose and the low neckline, the effect is more that of a virginal girl on the cusp of womanhood, than an innocent child. When she sashays into the dining-room, everyone looks up and then Cai, Gaspar and Siprian look again. However, they let it pass without comment and she takes one of the two empty places, the other belonging to the still-absent Madame Heslot.

“Be we coaching you as two?” begins Thell as Iristina helps herself to a bowl of thick hot chocolate, several sweet rolls and a quantity of fresh fruit. “Or two ones?”

“Together?” suggests Gaspar with half a shrug, looking in her direction.

“That makes sense,” she agrees, after swallowing her first mouthful. “If we're going to be a team, it makes sense if we're co-ordinated.” Thell and Adolphus nod and the younger of the two men moves them onto the next order of business.

“What are your best skills? Last night, you mentioned hand-to-hand combat and fencing skills.” Gaspar glances over at her, sees her mouth is once again full and takes on the burden of outlining their skill-sets.

“I've had formal fencing lessons with the mayor's son and the two of us” – here he gestures at Iristina, who is still busy consuming her food – “have sparred with sticks, so she picked up some of it.”

“But I'm better with knives than swords,” she interjects, her mouth temporarily empty.

“Yes, she's very good with thrown knives. Oh, and, of course, she once smashed a bear's skull with a rock.”

“That was mainly luck,” she puts in hastily. “I would not reckon my chances of sneaking up on a person, let alone a trained Career tribute, with a boulder.”

“And you, Gaspar?” inquires Adolphus.

“I'm good with hand-to-hand; Iristina be only one who ever beats me. So, if it come down to a fist-fight, I'd be like to win. I'm also strong from fetching and carrying in there forge.”

“OK. That all sounds good,” chimes in Daria with an encouraging smile. “But moving from fighting to surviving… What can you do?”

“Well, Iristina's the expert.”

“I'm not an expert,” she says, quickly. “I just spent eight summers living by me wits.”

“Why was that?” demands Amina Heslot, appearing in the doorway in a dress that makes her look like a pillar of flame.

“After I left the orphanage and started at school… Well, during term, they let me have a bed in the care-taker's office but, over the summer, they threw me out onto the streets.” Again, most of the adults are looking shocked. She shrugs. “There are so few orphanage kids – most orphans are taken in by family – that the system doesn't know what to do with them. Anyway, that first summer, a farmer's wife took pity on me and taught which berries and weeds in the hedgerow were safe to eat and which were poisonous. Later on, I used her rough guidelines to work out about other plants I came across.”

“Well, I know how to make a shelter by plaiting saplings together, how to cook on an open fire and how to catch fish.”

“I, of course, know how to tickle fish – that's what I was planning to do the day I found the bear – and I used to sleep near the river, so I know about selecting a good cave or hollow and concealing the entrance. I can also skin and gut anything, including a bear.” The familiarity of the bragging match has her feeling more relaxed and performing less than she has since waking up yesterday.

“Alright,” beams Cai, indulgently. “So, Gaspar, steer clear of the swords until your private session.”

“I would also advise against wrestling,” murmured Adolphus.

“But he won't be able to do that in the private session,” points out Madame Heslot. “Underplay your prowess, though. Don't let the other tributes see how good you really are.” Gaspar nods.

“Ye both need ta focus on plant identification and learning how ta find water,” Thell decrees. “We don't know what the terrain be like but it'll unlikely be exactly like District 9.” They both nod this time.

“Iristina,” says Cai and she turns to listen to him. “Do not throw any knives until your private session and you can practice camouflage and knot-tying, especially learn anything you can about setting traps. I want each of you to keep one skill hidden even from the Gamemakers. Let there be something that you do in the arena that will wow sponsors, OK?”

“Alright,” sighs the girl and Gaspar just nods again, he's looking a lot more grim than he had yesterday. Iristina wonders if maybe he's feeling his illness today, if it exists.

“Tracking,” says Daria, suddenly. “You'll both want to learn how to track. Otherwise, just try some new things.”

“Especially if it is something your potential ally is doing,” Adolphus puts in. “Try to get alongside those you want as friends and also try those things that the Career tributes are best at. If they are doing something that you think you can do well at, then go and do it.”

“We decided your strategy for training is to show the Gamemakers how you are equal to and better than the Careers,” explains Amina Heslot. “If you can get them to see you as viable opponents before your private sessions, your scores might be better.”

“Oh, look. We're almost there!” exclaims Siprian and the two tributes look up at the windows to see the ring of spires that is the Capitol fast approaching.

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own any of the Hunger Games characters (sigh), places or objects.  
> Everything you recognise from the original trilogy belongs to Suzanne Collins; anything that reminds you of the films probably belongs to the people who made those; and there are probably quotes and quirks borrowed from the myriad books I have read.

When she meets her prep team, Iristina is highly unimpressed. The hairdresser in District 9 at least looks like she understands the science and art of beauty; these three prattling fools are an explosion of mismatched styles in garish colours. However, she submits to them with the good grace upon which her mentors have insisted.

“Wow,” breathes one of the females, who has a perfect heart of vermilion hair, glittering silver make-up and a skirt suit in three different shades of green. “You're so well-groomed.”

“Of course.” She's frowning, confused as to why anyone – outside of 12 – wouldn't be on Reaping Day. “My hairdresser visited yesterday.”

“You have a hairdresser, Jesu?” the male exclaims, shrilly. His ensemble shows no more taste than that of his female colleagues: a sleeveless magenta top that reveals tattooed vines down both arms, skin-tight trousers in neon orange and a powder-blue quiff. “And such beautiful hair,” he adds, pulling one gold-flecked brown lock away from her face.

“I think, still, we need to wax her down,” pipes the final member of the trio, who seems to be in charge. She has unnaturally elongated eyes – to which she draws even more attention with dramatic red and black eye-shadow – and neon yellow dreadlocks. Her skirt is made of what appears to be strips torn from three dozen other garments from across the colour spectrum stitched onto an underskirt the colour of bird droppings. Above this curious article, she has on a hot-pink blouse with horizontal slashes where one would normally expect buttons and a bomber jacket made entirely of amber sequins. Iristina despises the lot of them and can't believe anyone has entrusted them with the beautification of a tribute. “I think, also, a manicure and pedicure, yes, Philo?” The mountain of blue hair moves from side to side as he nods. “Also, those awful bags under her eyes, they must be gone. And, maybe, those lines. How did she get so wrinkled?”

“Hard living,” retorts Iristina, annoyed by the woman's refusal to speak to her directly. “It's not easy being an orphan.”

“Mr P did say he wanted her to look grown-up,” murmurs the junior female. “The lines make her look older but not in a bad way.” The girl is somewhat touched by the fool's urge to re-assure her and not give offence.

“Well, she has good colouring, if poor skin,” muses the yellow-haired freak with no malice. “We can fix that, of course. Not too starved or too plump, good. I think, nothing to do to her lips, they're plump enough. Nice eyes, shame blue doesn't go with Mr P's colour scheme.” She's quite glad when the verbal inventory eventually ends as she was becoming more and more inclined to forget her promises to her mentors so far as to hit the woman. She is pleased that her sojourn with the prep team lasts less than two hours as she is impatient to meet her stylist, Pyrrhus, who is apparently a by-word in fashion. However, as she gets a whiff of the vermilion-haired woman's perfume – which puts her strongly in mind of beer – she's not so sure that an advocate of Capitol fashion is exactly what she wants.

_I_ _& G_

When the prep team leave her, chirruping farewells and best wishes, she dons her paper robe and waits for this celebrity stylist to enter. A few minutes later, her worst fears are realised. Pyrrhus had dyed his hair magenta and had it layered but, as it's all standing upright, the differing lengths give his head the look of a forest, not extra volume. His skin is tinged silver, making him look as though he's got diamond dust ingrained in his skin, and his make-up is all varying shades of pink. The clothing is, at least, all one style and in complimentary colours, even if his hair does clash with it all. An emerald tail-coat over a jade waist-coat and a turquoise shirt next to his skin with olive-green trousers as tight as those worn by Philo. His blood-red neck-tie is both shocking against all that cool green and an eye-catching reminder of the carnage of which she is soon to be a part.

“You're…” he begins but his voice and eyes trail away as though caught by a passing bumble-bee. “Lovely!” he finishes at last, although it is hard for her to tell whether he's describing her or whatever just distracted him. She rather suspects the latter as she's never been called 'lovely' before. She knows – has done since she was 13 – that she's desirable to men but she's always put it down to a certain magnetism, a good body and her striking cornflour-blue eyes. She's certainly never looked in her mirror and seen loveliness. “I think…” This time, he fills the pause with a simpering smile. “You'll look great.” She's on the point of asking what he's designed for her, when he adds: “In gold!” It's obvious to Iristina that this man, who has the power to make a laughing-stock of her in front of the whole Capitol and leave her unprotected against the elements of the arena, is addicted to some sort of drug, although she doubts it's morphling. That suspicion does explain her lamentably dressed prep team; he's probably so high that he hadn't noticed their woeful lack of fashion sense. In fact, he might have hired whoever was cheapest, so he could keep funding his habit.

“Isn't Flickerman wearing gold this year?”

“Yes,” he yawns, making it impossible to discern whether the matching colour scheme is coincidental or deliberate. “I think… Hestia!” The chief beautician re-enters, carrying a hanger with a simple sheath of gold silk on it in one hand and, in the other hand, a crown even more ridiculous than Pyrrhus' hair. It's main components are ears of wheat and the whole thing looks like two sets of inverted pan-pipes curved to form a circlet. She's about to complain when she remembers last year, when both tributes were dressed as windmills with rotating blades that kept hitting each other because the chariot forced them too close together. She does protest, however, when they begin to wind her hair around the wicker band that forms the base of her crown.

“You'll make me look like a bloody haystack, rather than Harvest Queen.” That last being what the stylist had muttered at the prep team before leaving them to it. Once they're finished tugging at her hair, they apply metallic gold eye-liner, dramatic eye shadow in autumnal colours and even paint a fall of autumn leaves from the corner of her left.

“You should so have those tattooed!” exclaims Philo, stepping back and surveying his work.

“Maybe I will,” she replies with a sycophantic grin. “After the Games.”

“Absolutely!” chimes in Sulpicia. She's interested that her prep team seem convinced that she's going to still be around after the Games but maybe they're paid to believe in her or don't want to depress her. Gaspar's costume turns out to be just as on-the-nose but adult as her own: he's stripped to the waist and carrying a threshing fork. She groans inwardly at the connotation of her, the wheat sheaf, being threshed by him. However, the lack of thought that seems to have gone into these costumes makes her doubt that that imagery has even been considered.

“So, how are we going to play this, man with the plan?” she teases him and this new, grown-up Gaspar smirks back at her.

“We want the crowd to love us but we're too old for silly costumes,” he informs her with a haughty tilt to his chin and a boyish gleam in his eye. “I'm going to stab this thing into the floor of the chariot at a suitably dramatic moment. Can you do anything about that daft crown?”

“Not easily,” she sighs, lifting the wicker band to show him how her hair is wrapped around it.

“Come here.” She takes a step towards him and he uses the threshing fork to fray the band above her left ear. “There. Pull it a little with your right hand.” She does. “Yes, it slides through your hair quite easily. At the right moment–“

“Pull it off and toss it to the crowd?” she suggests.

“Exactly,” he grins. “Now, I think we should come onto the streets as we left the district.”

“You mean, clasped hands held high?” He nods. “I was thinking the same.”

“Come along you two,” harries Perilla, Gaspar's stylist. She has been dressing District 9 tributes for over two decades, so Iristina thinks she should really know better than a shirtless thresher or last year's windmill with rotating blades but she knows enough to keep from saying anything. The pair are loaded into a standard chariot with a pair of honey-coloured horses between the traces. As the chariots ahead of them roll out, Gaspar and Iristina straighten their postures and clasp hands. They punch the air with their joined hands as soon as they exit into the sunset light and there's a definite cheer in response. They leave their ludicrous costumes in peace until they can see the City Circle on the horizon. Then Gaspar holds his fork out at waist-level, spins it a couple of times and, finally, stabs it viciously into the floor of their chariot. Iristina takes her cue from him and, once he's done, she wrenches the crown from her head and flings it like a discuss at the crowd. The onlookers start screaming their names – their first names – but, as 'Iristina' is uncomfortably long, it sounds like they're calling 'Ares' over and over. She and Gaspar are both beaming, have been since they first appeared, but now they use their free hands to toss kisses at the adoring crowd. When the chariots stop in front of President Snow's mansion, Gaspar releases her hand and drops his arm around her shoulders, instead. She smiles, leans her head against his chest and pulls him closer with her left arm. In that moment, she forgets their friendship is a fiction and, when the screens show them in close-up, they look as natural as a couple on their wedding day. She doesn't like the romantic overtones but she does like the fact that they don't look like children playing dress-up This procession might not have made them eternally memorable but it has laid a good foundation and no-one else has made a staggering impression. Eventually, they escape the twilight chill and enter the Training Centre.

_I_ _& G_

There's a whole welcoming committee waiting for them. First, there's the prep teams cooing over the state of Iristina's hair and the chariot; next come the stylists, both of whom look displeased at the cavalier treatment their creations had received from their tributes; then, Siprian exclaiming over how grown-up they had looked; and, finally, behind him, District 9's five mentors.

“Good show,” Adolphus says, slowly, once Iristina and Gaspar have made it to him and the others. However, she caught an edge to his voice that suggested that he was contemplating them or wary of them.

“I _loved_ your crown toss,” purrs Cai, stepping up beside his fellow victor.

“Oh, come along! We don't want to be late for the broadcast. I'm sure you'll want to make notes, Iristina.” Siprian smiles and proceeds to babble as he leads the way to the bank of elevators, which already have a throng of people in front of them. The prep teams melt away but Adolphus insists that the two stylists join them for dinner. It interests her that Adolphus is the one taking charge; Gaius Thell and Amina Heslot are both older, after all. However, even without the prep teams, there are too many of them to fit into one elevator. So, the two tributes choose to separate with their own stylist accompanying each of them. Siprian and the Barvens join Iristina, while the other three victors take the elevator with Gaspar. The view through the crystal walls of the elevator takes the girl's breath away. She pretends at sophistication and she has seen more of the good life than most tributes and certainly more than most orphans. However, the beauty and opulence of the Capitol amaze her on an hourly basis, she just doesn't let it show.

“Oh, Iristina!” breathes Siprian – as though invoking a deity – upon seeing their temporary living quarters. The elevator opens directly onto an open-plan living space that's furnished in minimalist style. To their left, there's a raised dining area and, straight ahead, several low couches grouped around a TV; the whole space is decorated in amber and black. “Oh, do come down here and see your room.” The escort takes her along a corridor to their right, which she notices is wider than some people's houses, and leads her to a maple door with her name burnt into it. When he touches the spot that would hold the handle in a district building, the panel slides away and she is looking at the most luxurious bedroom she has ever seen. The bed clothes are the green of her Reaping dress and look to be silk; two of the walls are the same colour as the dress she is currently wearing and one is a window; and the furniture is elegantly classical, not brutally minimalist like the communal area. Obviously, it has been decorated with her in mind and she wonders if it is Pyrrhus' work.

“It's perfect,” she sighs and Siprian nods approvingly before crossing the room to open doors into a bathroom, walk-in wardrobe and dumb waiter. Iristina struggles to keep the awe off of her face; she had never imagined that she would be given an entire suite to herself.

“Oh, you can programme the wardrobe with your tastes. If you want anything to eat, speak in here.” He indicates a mouthpiece beside the dumb waiter with a computer screen in front of it. “The bathroom has all the latest functions – shower-bath with massage feature, full-body dryers and an automated hairdresser's chair.”

“Thanks, Siprian,” she says, a little repressively. “I'm going to jump in the shower, get dressed and then… oh, could you send someone to fetch me for dinner?”

“Oh, of course.” He clatters out on those ridiculously high shoes and she walks to the wardrobe. She programs in her preferences for style and colour – no green or gold – and then strips off her parade dress. She hangs the offending item in the wardrobe, hoping it will be cleaned and returned to her stylist's studio. Iristina then walks into the bathroom, shedding underclothes and hairpins, and turns her attention to ridding herself of the make-up. Standing over the sink and scrubbing at the eye shadow with a damp cloth, a bout of hilarity overcomes her. It's such a normal happening – her stood at the bathroom sink, removing her make-up, but what a bathroom! When the giggling subsides, she sets aside the cloth and looks at herself critically in the mirror. Lank hair, air-brushed skin and tired eyes are what greet her impartial scrutiny.

“They say, beauty's in the eye of the beholder,” she mutters, then gives her head a vicious little shake and gets back to her task. Once clear of make-up and painted leaves, she gets into the overly complicated shower-bath. First, she showers and then she sits on the little stool and lets the massage function have a go at her back. Feeling clean and drowsy, she steps out onto the mat and lets the dryers gently drive all the water from her skin. Finally, she moves to the hairdresser's chair and programs it to only dry and brush her hair. Iristina is still reclining with her head encased in the automated hairdressing device, when she hears what she thinks is a knock. She pauses the program and, sure enough, the knocking comes again. “I'm not dressed yet!” she yells and goes back to having her hair done. However, a moment later, a distinctly masculine figure appears in the doorway and she leaps from the chair, blindly flinging a handy bar of soap at the intruder. “Cai!” she yelps in relief, she realises who has walked in on her but sighs at the lack of anything with which to cover her nakedness.

“Not bad,” he comments, looking down at the wet mark on the front of his shirt. “If that had been a knife and I was a baby tribute, I'd be in serious trouble.”

“What are you _doing_ here?” she snaps, rolling her eyes at his mockery.

“You requested someone come to fetch you for dinner. I volunteered.”

“I told you that I wasn't dressed yet!”

“Oh, should I have left because of that? Would that have been the gentlemanly thing to do?” She opens her mouth to retort but then realises that she's in no position to demand honourable treatment.

“Fine,” she snaps and turns to face him fully. “As you are here, you can help me decide what to wear.” She stalks right past him, wearing her nakedness and loose hair like battle armour.

“You and Gaspar looked very cosy out there,” the mentor goads as he trails her to the wardrobe door, careful to avoid stepping on the items she discarded on her way into the bathroom.

“Underwear,” she tells the wardrobe in a flat, exasperated voice and, within a minute, is stepping into knickers and bra. “It's just an act. We can't stand each other.” She doesn't turn to look at him but she's sure his face is a picture of surprise and disbelief.

“I thought you'd been best friends for years?”

“Red or purple?”

“Purple,” he answers and she pulls out the strappy, dark violet dress.

“No, we've _known_ each other for years. He used to bully me when we were children.” This time she gets to see the double-take and it makes her feel slightly better about him walking in on her.

“So, was any of that story real?”

“I can't speak for him but what I said was mostly true, apart from saying we were friends and had made a pact to volunteer together. I was just as surprised as everyone else when he stepped forward.” She is now fully into the dress and turns her back towards him. “Will you get the zip, please?” His fingers are warm on her back through the synthetic fabric but Iristina feels no sudden rush of desire for the man, although she rather wishes that she could. Maybe, however, it's just her irritation at him barging in that's making her so indifferent.

“Shall we go to dinner, madame?” Cai asks with a taunting lilt to his voice and she rolls her eyes at him. However, she steps into the shoes that have appeared at the bottom of the wardrobe and allows him escort her out into the main living space. The company are all gathered around the couches with Gaspar – arrayed in a brilliant white shirt and smart navy trousers – chatting to Perilla and Daria on one, the three eldest victors on the other and Pyrrhus and Siprian gossiping over aperitifs in front of the TV.

“Oh, Iristina. You look marvellous,” beams the escort as he catches sight of them. “And Cai – so dapper.”

“I try my best,” smirks the man at her side. She lets herself actually assess his outfit and is fondly surprised that his three-piece, deep grey suit has a shimmering purple thread running through it.

“Let we be sitting down to dinner, eh?” suggests Thell and they all follow him up to the dining area. They find the table spread with a variety cold vegetable dishes, which are followed in succession by a further six courses.

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own any of the Hunger Games characters (sigh), places or objects.  
> Everything you recognise from the original trilogy belongs to Suzanne Collins; anything that reminds you of the films probably belongs to the people who made those; and there are probably quotes and quirks borrowed from the myriad books I have read.

After they have finished with the meal, which climaxed with a berry tart, the District 9 party take their coffee across to the TV area.

“I wonder what Flickerman and Templesmith will make of your behaviour,” snarks Perilla in her incongruously girlish voice. No-one comments but just settle themselves on the couches, while an Avox sets up the TV. Siprian hands Iristina the notebook he had given her on the train and she flips to her notes from yesterday. Suddenly, there's Caesar Flickerman's golden visage on the screen.

“ _Tonight_ … there are almost 100,000 spectators jostling to see this year's tributes. It is impossible to say just how important this parade is as this is when the sponsors get their first look at the tributes… in the _flesh_.”

“And here they come!” exclaims Templesmith and the screen switches to a fixed camera position at ground-level that catches each chariot as it exits the Remake Centre. Watching the parade is almost entirely an exercise in vanity, although the girl does recategorise a few of her fellow tributes, because she's more interested in how the commentators portray her and Gaspar to the audience.

“What is he doing with that trident?” frowns Flickerman at last, speaking more to his co-anchor than the audience. The screen immediately changes to a close-up of their chariot at the moment Gaspar stabs the threshing fork into the chariot floor. When she drags the crown from her hair and tosses it into the crowd, the camera follows the crown and she's amazed to discover it reached the hands of a Capitol citizen, who promptly swoons.

“I wonder what her stylist will make of that!” jokes Templesmith as the camera is swinging back to the procession of chariots.

“I _love_ these two,” chuckles Flickerman. “Look at them! Holding their hands up, saying they're proud to come from District 9.” The camera lets them roll out of view and the presenters go on to marvel at the beautiful simplicity of the District 1 costumes but she is satisfied.

“How… impertinent!” notes Pyrrhus, lazily. “Do you… any idea… how long I spent… that costume?!” She bites back the impertinent response that leaps to her tongue and shrugs instead.

“It got us noticed. Apart from the Careers, what other district has been given as much screen-time as us?”

“Oh, look, Pyr!” gasps Siprian as the camera fixes on Iristina resting against Gaspar's chest, while the president talks about unity. In the here and now, the boy bursts out laughing.

“That won't hurt, neither. We are the face of unity in this Games!” he adds in a dreadful imitation of Flickerman.

“That's not a bad idea,” muses Madame Heslot with an approving nod in his direction. “If you want allies… The sponsors would like it too.”

“Who think ye will make yer the best allies, Missie Emmer?” She jumps out of her chair like a scalded cat and spins to see that old man Thell is leaning back in his own with his eyes shut, not right behind her as it had sounded.

“ _Please_ don't call me that,” she forces out through gritted teeth and his eyes fly open to stare at her in surprise. She realises everyone is staring at her and she curses herself as a fool for revealing any weakness to these people. “I'm sorry. I'm not too fond of being defined as a child without a home, a girl without a family.” She produces a tinkling laugh that is most unlike her normal throaty cackle and her crocodile smile seems to be working on Siprian, Daria and the stylists. “Makes it damned difficult in the district, don't you know?” Her voice, she is pleased to note, has slid into a polished Capitol accent. “What were you inquiring of me, Mr Thell?”

“Call me, 'Gaius', girlie,” he tells her with a gap-toothed grin. “And what should I be calling ya?” She slips back into her chair and allows a broad smile of genuine excitement to take over her face.

“The crowd seem to like 'Ares', so I might as well go with that.” She looks more beautiful than ever with her face alight with childlike pleasure and pride, Cai notes.

“I were asking as to which of thicky tributes be yer choice fer allies?” She leans back in her chair, one unblemished arm lying along each of its caramel-coloured ones. Iristina– Ares now looks so completely in control and gratified – rather like a cat that's got the cream – that it's hard to believe the violent outburst that came before. Cai finds himself wondering if she will be so volatile in the arena and whether it will work for or against her.

“The girl from 11,” she says, whip-sharp. “Maybe the boy from 7 and, possibly, the one from 6, too. I was thinking about Glaucus from 4 but…”

“Yeah. What's up with that?” Gaspar's frowning. “I thought they were Careers?”

“They are,” Cai assures him. “But you saw the Reaping – no-one volunteered this year. Glaucus does look strong.”

“Brute strength doesn't make him a very attractive prospect – I've got Gaspar for that!” She laughs, her eyes flashing sideways at the boy, and Cai's heart leaps.

“Remember,” lectures Gaius. “Tomorrer be fer showing the other tributes a tad of what you can do. We be making proper plans at breakfast. Now, offski ta beds.” The two tributes bid everyone goodnight and make their separate ways to their bedrooms. Cai allows her 20 minutes, then he makes his excuses and disappears down the corridor that holds the bedrooms. Ensuring that none of his colleagues see which of the sleeping quarters he's entering, Cai slips into Iristina's rooms.

“Cai!” she gasps, sitting bolt upright in bed.

“I thought you wanted some company,” he tells her with a salacious smile and raised heartbeat. She stares at him for a moment before her head jerks in realisation and she gets out from under the pile of bolsters.

“I'm sorry, Cai. I wasn't fishing for you,” she tells him with a disarming laugh.

“Then, who _are_ you fishing for? Adolphus?! He's devoted to Daria.”

“I should hope so!” Now she laughs in earnest and Cai relaxes.

“So, who are you after? Not Gaius?” He's laughing too and she seems to relax, coming to stand in front of him.

“I'm not fishing for a victor. I'm after someone who will seem impartial but can influence a lot of sponsors,” she answers with a devilish smile tugging at her lips. However, his good humour has suddenly evaporated and he draws back to give her a look of shrewd appraisal.

“That's awfully cold-blooded,” he sneers, not caring how detrimental this might be to his appearance. “Are the Games all that matter to you?”

“Until they're won? Yes. Cai,” she answers with unwonted honesty takes his hands in both of hers. “ _All_ I care about is winning these Games… and having the _chance_ to live the rest of my life.”

“So… if I were to ask you again in three months?” he suggests, not even formulating a proper question. He's still holding out hope that she has some liking for him, despite the difference in their ages.

“Get me out alive and then we'll talk,” she smirks and he knows when to give in with a good grace, so he chuckles and kisses her hands before leaving her to climb back into the vast bed alone.

_I_ _& G_

Iristina finds herself waking with the post-dawn gloom, which annoys her as she has nothing to do until breakfast. She drags herself from the bed, takes a shower, wastes as much time as possible in choosing between the three outfits with which her wardrobe has presented her and there is still an hour to go before she can expect anyone else to be up. When she discovers there are no books in the room – not even a History of Panem – part of her wishes she had let Cai stay just to have something to do this morning. Instead, she creeps out to the sitting-room and finds, as she suspected, that even the Avoxes aren't about yet. So much for 'the Capitol never sleeps'! She sits herself in front of the TV, flips it on and immediately mutes it. Once she's worked out how to switch the subtitles on, the girl makes her way systematically through the channels, searching for something worthwhile. She's watching interviews with that year's stylists, when a voice behind her has her literally jumping from her seat for the second time in twelve hours.

“Couldna sleep?” Once again, it is Gaius Thell who has provoked her fight-or-flight response. She claps a hand to her heart before swinging around to smile at the old man.

“I did sleep, thank you, and well but no were tired enough to stay a-bed.” The gap-toothed grin re-appears.

“Ah, so ye _do_ be coming out District 9. I were to thinking you be some Capitol lassie with yer fine talk and no fear of there arena.”

“I be a-feared,” she assures him, slipping into her native vernacular with depressing speed. “But I ain't have nowt better.” She shrugs and he puts his head on one side, considering her.

“Why'd ya be Krill's fancy-lass?”

“No better offers,” she answers with a brittle laugh before walking around the chair to face him properly. “I hate to be 'Miss Emmer' 'cause that name had me on them streets when I be 8. Every summer – warm or wet, well or ill – I were on them streets with no shelter, no protection, until I kill that there bear and Krill wants me, permanent like.” The old man looks her up and down, critically.

“That be why ya jump from a chair when someone a-speaks behind ya,” he says, eventually. “You be used to having ta run.”

“Yeah,”she huffs out on a sigh and then slides a hand through her hair. “I spended eight long summers a urchin what the Peacekeepers always threw out of me hole, so yeah I jump at unknown sounds and, normal-wise, I run.” She draws herself up straighter. “Not in the arena. In there, I'll fight 'em all off.”

“I think ya will. What be an TV?”

“Stylist interviews,” she tells him with a shrug. “It was the only Hunger Games coverage I could find at this time in the morning.”

“Why ya watching Hunger Games?” She laughs properly at that, despite her deep-rooted respect for the Old Man of District 9.

“What else be there? How can I watch propaganda or Capitol gossip, when my life is bound up in the Games?”

“There be more to life than these here Games,” recites the decrepit old man.

“Not to Ares, there ain't!” laughs Gaspar, strolling into the living area. The girl finds herself unable to refute his good looks this morning. Tight black trousers, a ruffled white silk shirt and a tailored jacket of blue crushed velvet make him look quite the dandy, although a physically powerful one. “Look at her! The very goddess of war.” She hitches a dismissive shoulder in reply. Pyrrhus' idea of training apparel is a sleeveless, purple tunic and close-fitting trousers the iridescent colour of pearl.

“I hardly look goddess-like in this get-up.”

“Oh but you look like a _statue_ ,” breathes Siprian. “You're so clever, Pyrrhus!” She's marginally surprised to see her stylist, redressed in yesterday's clothes, following the escort from the corridor of bedrooms.

“It is… hardly _difficult_ … to decorate… that figure,” drawls Pyrrhus, laconically.

“Oh, well, let's have breakfast. I'll be taking these two darlings down to the training rooms in an hour.” They all move to the dining area and help themselves from the board covered in platters of food.

“I'm surprised to see you up this early, Pyrrhus,” she teases the stylist, not entirely good-naturedly.

“Up?” he murmurs. “Oh… we've not… _slept_.” The look he gives her is perilously close to a self-satisfied wink. She grins back because, while she can't see the attraction to Siprian herself, she can relate to his desire to show off his power and allure. If Cai was up, she would probably be doing something similar herself, even though nothing happened. The girl returns her attention to the array of food in front of her, instead, and helps herself to runny eggs, fat sausages, fried seafood and the rich, salty-sweet bread from home. She even fills a separate plate with fruit, which she uses as a palate cleanser after consuming the heavier fare. However, it is the constant flow of strong, fragrant coffee for which she is most grateful.

“So,” hums the old man. “I know Cai told yer ta keep one skill hidden from the Gamemakers and you need another hidden skill for the private session. Do yer wanna decide what they'll be together or apart?” She's thinking about it, looking to Gaspar, when he answers:

“Apart, definitely.” Again, she wonders if there's something more to this plan of his than heroic self-sacrifice. Gaius Thell nods slowly, his eyes on Iristina. She shifts uncomfortably, knowing that her suspicion of her district-partner must have been plain on her face.

“Yeah, yeah,” muses Thell. “Gaspar, you be with Amina and Cai for training. Adolphus and Daria will take you, Iristina.” The girl purposefully avoids her stylist's eye, knowing that the same thought must have crossed his mind as hers at the old man's choice of phrase.

“Let us have a _bite_ of breakfast first, Gaius,” beams Daria, pausing only to kiss the old man's cheek before helping herself to food. Her husband, on the other hand, looks barely  compos mentis. Iristina sighs and pushes the coffee in his direction. She is feeling rather sorry for herself, until Cai rolls in as the rest of them are leaving the breakfast table; he is unmistakeably drunk. She feels a rush of pride at her power to reduce him to this state, draws herself up straighter and tips him a wink. His only response is a guttural growl. Iristina leads the Barvens to her bedroom as there isn't much in the way of private spaces within their floor of the Training Centre.

“Alright,” grins Daria, plopping down on the girl's bed, while Adolphus gingerly lowers himself onto the stool in front of her vanity table. “What is this deadly skill that Gaspar knows nothing about?”

“It wasn't my idea to be coached separately,” she tells them with a sigh. “But I don't think he does know of my swimming ability.”

“That could be useful,” muses Adolphus in his slow, deep voice. “There's usually a body of water and, if there's a fire, being able to hide in the water could be a great advantage.”

“I ain't– I'm not that good,” she protests but the two victors wave it aside.

“What about strategy and leadership?” puts in his wife with a gleam in her eye. “You've been very careful to let Gaspar take the lead but the way you're assessing the other tributes says you're a born strategist, too.” The girl shrugs; she has been hoping no-one would notice.

“If you can show leadership in the arena – not before – the sponsors will love you,” Adolphus assures her.

“You didn't have allies, Daria,” the girl points out. “Just that boy from 11 who took that arrow for you.” The young woman's smile tightens and she nods.

“I wasn't a strategist, at 15. I didn't volunteer, intending to win. In fact, when I entered the arena, I expected to die. You're not me and my strategies won't work for you.” Now, it's the girl assessing her mentors with her head on one side.

“Tell me, why are you coaching me?” Iristina asks them, suddenly challenging. “Madame Heslot doesn't like me, Cai is charmed by me and Mister Thell doesn't want to pick sides but what do you two see in me?” At first, the only response is Daria chewing her lip in an oddly childish way.

“I see a victor,” Adolphus answers abruptly, getting to his feet. “A career. A tribute who has been preparing for the Games her whole life.” He's standing right in front of her now, towering over her. “And I don't like it.” She shrugs, putting up a front of calm and self-assurance.

“So, you disapprove of me, too, just for a different reason.” She gives a slight shrug and then peers around him to look at his wife. “What about you, Daria? Does your husband speak for both of you?”

“I like you,” says the young woman with a wide grin. “You're not going to let any of us push you around. You know what you want.” She hitches a one-shoulder shrug. “You scare me.” The 18-year-old blinks at that as she has never thought it possible: she scares a victor.

“Well, then the other tributes should be child's play,” she drawls, suppressing her urge to roll her eyes with difficulty.

_I_ _& G_

As she shoots down in the elevator with Siprian and Gaspar, she is wary of the hubris she senses beginning to grow. Her mentors think she can do it and she has been training for so long that it would be so easy to believe herself a lock for victor. However, there are a lot of obstacles between here and the crown, not all of them in the shape of her fellow tributes. The pair lounge in behind their escort to find that there are still six tributes missing. They wait with melodramatic demonstrations of patience – which draw a few smiles – until someone has pinned their district number to their backs before wandering over to the tributes from District 7.

“G'morn,” Gaspar winks at the ferocious-looking girl, who only sneers back and then stalks away with her nose in the air.

“Are you ready for this?” Iristina asks the boy, forcing some nervousness into her voice.

“Yeah?” he offers. “Looking forward to mess around with the camouflage materials.” She's surprised by Renatus; openness but then realises that it doesn't actually tell her anything.

“That'll be interesting,” she agrees. “But I'm more interested in learning how to use some of those weapons. How deadly do think _they'll_ be?” She flicks a look over at the six Career tributes and the boy's eyes follow hers.

“Probably, very,” he sighs.

“Bet you're pretty deadly!” grins Gaspar, clapping the younger boy on the shoulder. The three of them stand together, establishing a modicum of rapport, until the head trainer steps forward to give them a run-down of the stations. Once the tributes are released, Renatus runs straight to the camouflage station but the other two stay standing in their places in what had been a circle.

“Where do you want to start?” Iristina asks, allowing the boy to take charge.

“How about we do some tracking?” he suggests, his eyes flashing and she grins in reply. They spend two hours at the tracking station, during which time other tributes come and go and the Careers get comfortable at the weapon stations. “Ready to handle a blade?”

“You've _no_ idea,” she laughs and he joins in, drawing the attention of several other tributes. “How about we try spear-throwing?” He nods and they walk across to the range, which is currently occupied by the boys from Districts 4 and 12.

“Have either of you ever handled a spear before?” asks the instructor, coming to stand in front of them.

“No,” they answer in unison and the athlete nods. He spends half an hour teaching them the correct stance and grip – as though they're going to have time to think about that in the arena – before letting them actually throw anything. They step up, parallel to the other two tributes, and each take a spear. Gaspar goes first and his spear thuds into the floor 6 metres short of the first row of targets. The trainer gets the other three tributes to drop their implements and runs out to retrieve the spear but he can't. He tries to tug it out of the hard plastic flooring for a couple of minutes to no avail.

“Here,” offers Gaspar. “Let me.” The trainer looks sceptical but waves him forward. The boy wraps his whole forearm around the aluminium shaft and pulls it free with a single jerk. After seeing the surprise cross the trainer's face, Iristina turns to take in the expressions of their fellow tributes and finds the boy from 4 has been joined by that from District 1. She grins at their petulant scowls, picks up her own projectile and, once she's sure everyone is out of range, sends it hurtling easily into the centre of the nearest target, 75 metres away. If they had been surprised by Gaspar's strength, Iristina's ability with a spear has the trainer and other tributes displaying slack-jawed amazement. “Good show,” grins her district-partner and they clasp hands. “Are you going to have another shot?”

“No, I think I'll go try some knot-tying,” she answers, giving him a significant look. He turns and sees the girl from 11 already at that station. “Good luck. Try and hit the target!” He laughs and she walks away, grinning.

“That was very impressive,” says Winnow, when Iristina joins her. The older girl is surprised, she had thought the other wouldn't have been able to see anything.

“Thank you,” she smiles. “That looks… how did you _do_ that?” Winnow smiles secretively but pulls the knot apart and reties it so the other girl can watch. Iristina tries to copy her actions but her fingers are not nimble enough. The two of them spend the remaining time before lunch tying knots and setting traps, so they wander into the dining room together, not chatting but comfortable in each other's proximity. Gaspar is already there, laughing with Renatus, Glaucus, Theodoros and Servitus. It amuses her that the rest of the Career Pack are glaring daggers at Glaucus for his defection to their table. She and Winnow load up their plates and then walk over to join the crowd that Gaspar has been able to gather.

“Ares!” laughs Gaspar, looking up and seeing them. “Hey, I saved you seat. Theodoros, budge up and let the ladies in beside ya.” The two girls sit down in the tight gap and start attacking their food. “I was just telling everyone about that time we raced up the side of the Justice Building. Do you remember?” She does remember and the memory freezes the blood in her veins. She had overheard Gaspar crowing to Ketill that he had climbed the tower a hundred times and she had dared him to prove it.

“You mean the time we both ended up flat on our backs?” He laughs but his eyes are hard and malicious, a much more familiar expression than those he's been showing her lately.

“How was that?” asks Theodoros, sounding as eager as a little boy.

“Well,” the girl beams, trying to keep the malice off of her face and out of her voice. “I ended up flat on my back, out of breath, on the roof of the building and Gaspar ended up flat on his back for a month because he slipped halfway up and broke his leg in the fall.” Everyone guffaws and the scowls of the Career Pack deepen. After lunch, Servitus leads the way over to the camouflage station with the pair of tributes from 9 on his heels.

“Are you ever going to stop showing off how much better you are at _everything_?” hisses Gaspar out of the corner of his mouth.

“I was just being honest and, besides, if I'm gonna win this here thing I need ta be looking like a contender, ya see?” She curses inwardly at the dialect-rich expostulation which spews from her lips like vomit but she had been thinking of Gaius' advice.

“Fine,” he snarls, then plasters on a smile for Servitus and the camouflage trainer. As they work on painting themselves into natural backgrounds, Iristina is forcibly reminded that the only victors from District 6 won by camouflaging themselves and out-lasting everyone else. Servitus seems to be following in his mentors' footsteps and she decides that he will be little use as an ally. Just as they're moving over to the discus range, she catches sight of Glaucus in the middle of the knot of Careers. He doesn't look happy but she suspects that he will be throwing in his lot with the other tributes from 1, 2 and 4, not any odd gang she might be able to pull together. By the end of the first training day, there are only two potential allies left.

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own any of the Hunger Games characters (sigh), places or objects.  
> Everything you recognise from the original trilogy belongs to Suzanne Collins; anything that reminds you of the films probably belongs to the people who made those; and there are probably quotes and quirks borrowed from the myriad books I have read.

“How was training?” Adolphus asks them, once everyone has settled at the dinner table that night.

“ _Ares_ , throws a spear as well as she throws knives,” reports Gaspar, his bitterness discernible to his district-partner, even if not to any of their mentors.

“And the boy-hero beats me hands-down at tracking and camouflage,” she retaliates, rolling her eyes at him.

“What are your plans for tomorrow?” interjects Cai, sensing an atmosphere brewing.

“I thought I might try my hand at archery and wrestling,” the girl suggests.

“Archery, yes, but no wrestling for me,” says Gaspar. “I'll save it for Day 3. Maybe I'll practice _climbing_. We do also still need to visit the plant identification station.”

“Plant identification, yeah,” she agrees, not wanting to re-ignite their earlier argument. “Renatus mentioned he'd be trying that tomorrow.”

“Which one is Renatus?” asks Madame Heslot, looking at Gaspar.

“The boy from 7,” he answers, laconically. “I like him. Definitely ally material.”

“Do you agree, Iristina?” asks Adolphus, his eyes narrowed at her.

“Absolutely! Him and Winnow, the girl from 11. Her knot-tying is unbelievable and she was tossing around some of those weights after lunch, so she must be really strong.”

“Very well,” decrees Thell. “I'll speak ter their mentors.”

“What do you think of the Career Pack?” inquires Daria, casually.

“The boy from 4 had lunch with us – thick as pig shit. Wouldn't surprise me if he fell off his plinth before the 60 seconds were up,” Gaspar exclaims, chortling.

“The boy from 1 isn't much better,” puts in Iristina. “He stopped by the tracking station while we were there and the trainer looked like she wanted to burst into tears – he kept trampling the animal trails and didn't even bother to try to keep quiet. We'll hear him a mile off in the arena.”

“Yeah,” frowns Gaspar, putting down his fork. ”What is with 4 this year? Neither of them were volunteers.”

“That happens sometimes,” Cai shrugs. “Normally, it means that the two names drawn are considered deadly enough but this year… I'm not sure either of them will make it through the bloodbath.”

“Don't you think the other Careers will keep them alive?” she asks and catches Daria flashing her a smile.

“Maybe. Career Tributes aren't exactly known for their kindness, though,” Cai observes.

_I_ _& G_

The next day, Iristina and Gaspar start at the archery range. It becomes clear, very quickly, that while she is good with throwing blades and spears Iristina is useless with a bow and arrow. She leaves Gaspar to it and wanders over to the wrestling station, which has mostly been left to the boys so far. While she has fought Gaspar multiple times rolling around in the street, she has never had any formal instruction in wrestling. However, she owns up to previous fist-fighting experience and the trainer has her demonstrate with an assistant before teaching her anything. She spends the next couple of hours having her technique sharpened. As she leaves for lunch, she notices that three Gamemakers who have been observing her are converging on the trainer and she wonders if she has just picked up or dropped a training score mark. Lunch today is just a party of four: Gaspar, Iristina, Renatus and Winnow.

“So, my mentor spoke to me after breakfast this morning,” Renatus begins, affecting casualness.

“Mine, too,” hums Winnow, nodding. They both give the pair from 9 appraising looks, who wait with matching smirks for their answers.

“Do you really think we can beat the Career Pack?” asks the boy in an excited undertone.

“Yeah,” Gaspar asserts, jerking up his chin. “Between the four of us. Why not?”

“And after they are dead?” asks Winnow.

“When all six are dead, the alliance is over,” Iristina says, very careful of her wording and trying not to step on her district-partner's metaphorical toes, this time. “Maybe none of us will win but, if we can get rid of the Careers, that makes it a fairer playing-field for everyone.” Winnow looks at her for a long moment and then nods.

“I'm in. Mukhbaza will not survive the bloodbath and no-one else do I want as an ally.” Gaspar grins and shakes her hand.

“I'm not going to say no!” yelps Renatus. “Viatrix hates me, maybe _more_ than everyone else. And, yeah, you're the only ones I trust to keep your word. I mean, I'm sure you'd kill me after the Career Pack are dead but until then…” He shrugs, they all smile and shake hands, drawing curious glances from other tributes.

“So, what are your combat strengths?” asks Gaspar, leaning in conspiratorially.

“I think you should say first. Show of good faith,” suggests Winnow and he shrugs.

“I can use a sword and I can wrestle.”

“I'm good at throwing knives,” Iristina offers.

“And spears,” laughs Renatus and an idea begins to form in her mind; maybe she _will_ have another shot at the spear-throwing range. “Well, I'm good with axes – typical District 7 – either two felling axes at close quarters or I can throw hand axes.” Although she's unclear on the distinction, the fact he knows there is one sounds convincing.

“I am strong,” says Winnow. “In the presses, we must turn heavy wood spokes. I, too, can use a spear but not to throw.”

“What about survival?” asks Renatus. “Have any of you done the plant identification station yet?” All three shake their heads.

“We were going to visit it after lunch,” Iristina explains.

“I don't think we should all go together,” Gaspar puts in before either of the others can suggest it. “We don't want to look too much like a team before we enter the arena or we'll be at the head of _their_ kill list.” The others nod and then Winnow frowns.

“What is our plan for the cornucopia?”

“I think that is a conversation for lunch tomorrow,” Iristina suggests as an assistant trainer calls them back into the gymnasium. Gaspar heads to the climbing wall, Renatus to the fire-starting station and the girls go over to the plant identification station together. After they have completed every test the trainer can set, the pair separate: Winnow goes to learn how to find water, while Iristina joins Viatrix in learning how to wield an axe as a weapon. However, she soon gives up on that in favour of the fishing station. She's been tickling fish in the stream that powers the water-mills since she was 8 but using a trident or net is quite another proposition. The hand-eye co-ordination and fine motor-control required has her forgetting everything else around her and it's only when the trainer comes over and tells her that the training rooms are closing that she realises that all the other tributes have already left the gymnasium. “Sorry,” she smiles at the trainer and heads for the elevators. A young man comes to stand beside her and she thinks it must be Theodoros, until she turns to look at him and realises that she has only ever seen him on TV before.

“The volunteer from District 9,” drawls the 18-year-old victor, once he's sure she's looking at him. “Do you know? I think you might be the first tribute form an out-lying district who has a chance of winning this _decade_.” He's looking at her openly now; not with sexual interest – although he's trying to give that impression – but with a similar assessment to that of old man Thell.

“While I'm flattered, Mr Odair, shouldn't you be saying something like this to your own tributes?”

“Glaucus and Bess?” His expression has changed to one that indicates he thinks she's crazy. “Do you _really_ see them as threats to your crown?” She colours at that and a small, proud smile steals onto her face. She's had plenty of compliments to her beauty and none of those have ever caused the same shy re-action; she wonders if he knows that.

“No,” she admits, biting down on her smile. “I think, Bess might well go down in the first ten minutes and Glaucus might only make it through the first night, if they weren't Career tributes. However, I won't tell you what my mentors say.”

“Oh, I know what Cai says,” the young man sighs. “He thinks Glaucus will set off the mine in his launch-pad and Bess will be killed by one of the other Career tributes.” He sounds almost bored and Iristina finds herself hoping that her mentors don't talk about her like this behind her back but, suddenly, Finnick Odair is standing in front of her and looking into her eyes with his deep sea-green orbs. “But I am not telling them that they can win – I think you… _will_.” She's saved from thinking of an answer to that by the arrival of the elevator.

“Well, thank you, Mr Odair. It was very nice meeting someone who doesn't have the better of me.” He gives her a look that blatantly suggests that he does have the better of her. “However, I must–“

“What?” he smirks. “Can't I share the elevator with you?” She accepts that as ridiculous and they both enter, he presses the buttons marked 4 and, more slowly, 9. Once the elevator has started to move, he turns to look at her. “Have you considered what you will be giving up, if you do win?”

“Mr Odair,” she sighs and makes a calculated decision to spill those secrets known to all of District 9. “I was an orphan and a whore before I came here. How much worse can they make my life?” He puts his head on one side and scrutinises her again.

“They will make you a murderer.”

“Is that really the worst part?” she challenges, sardonically. He doesn't answer but then the doors are opening behind him.

“Perhaps, next year, we will meet as equals.”

“Count on it, Mr Odair.”

“Please… call me 'Finnick'.” He winks at her before the closing doors hide him from view and the elevator continues on its way skyward, leaving her to wonder why he had engineered that conversation.

“Oh, where have you _been_?!” exclaims Siprian as soon as the doors open.

“Sorry, Rian. I got caught up learning how to catch fish.” They all stare at her and she shrugs. “It's a useful skill.”

“As is securing allies,” observes Adolphus. “I hear you have concluded your alliance. It will improve your chance of receiving sponsors, I'm sure.”

“Especially if they get high training scores, too,” puts in Daria.”Gaspar was just telling us about their skills and how you're going to plan your strategy over lunch tomorrow before the private sessions.” Not caring for whatever oblique message the young woman was trying to convey, Iristina cut in:

“I've changed my mind about my skill for the private session. I'm going to throw some spears instead of knives.”

“Why?!” exclaims Cai, vaulting out of his seat.

“Well, we've proven that I'm just as deadly with spears as I am with knives, so if I do that for the Gamemakers, I'll still get a high score and then the knives will be a wow-factor in the arena.”

“I don't agree,” spits Gaspar. “They saw you throw that spear, just like everyone else did. If you do spear-throwing in the private session, you can only live up to expectations and it'll look like you only have one skill.” She has to concede the point and admits to herself that the second consideration actually hadn't occurred to her. Then, a discomforting thought lodges itself in her mind: perhaps, Gaspar has a better handle on the Gamemakers than she does.

_I_ _& G_

The next morning, she starts with a half hour at the wrestling station, followed by an hour with the gymnastics trainer and then moves to the spear-throwing range, where she hits bull's eyes at each successive distance. For the final hour of training, she settles herself at the fire-starting station and lets the world fade away. When they're called for lunch, she joins her three allies and they launch into planning as soon as they're sure that none of the other tributes are listening.

“At the cornucopia, do we go in and fight or do we run?” Renatus asks. She allows the others to air their opinions first, hoping she won't have to tip her hand too soon.

“We are four. We can fight,” pronounces Winnow, looking determined.

“Yeah but we ain't killing no little kids,” Gaspar tells them.

“What d'ya mean?” frowns the other boy. “We're _only_ going to kill Careers?”

“No but Ares and I volunteered to protect little kids in our district and that'll be the line we be taking in them interviews. If we then go inter the arena and, in the first five minutes, we – or our allies – go around killing 12/13/14-year-olds, we'll lose our sponsors and that won't do any of us no good,” Gaspar points out and she's glad he's grasped this vital point as it frees her to follow Adolphus' instructions to not show her leadership before they get into the arena. After all, she might have to take charge; for all any of them know, these three might well lose their heads under pressure and she knows she doesn't have _that_ weakness.

“So, no stopping to kill, just run straight for the cornucopia, right?” Renatus summarises and they all nod. It occurs to her then that the boy from District 7 has a talent for précis and wonders how far he might have gone, if he hadn't been reaped; it brings a lump to her chest to think of all the children that have to die so she can live the life of a Capitol lady. “If we win at the cornucopia, are we gonna stop there and make camp with all the supplies?” She sees Gaspar waver, so allows herself to respond.

“I don't think that's a good idea; unless it's a barren arena – y'know, like a city-scape or something. The– _We_ can find food, they can't; so they'll _have_ to slaughter us, if we horde all the supplies.”

“I thought we wanted them ter come after us?” Renatus queries.

“Yes but it be on our terms, not theirs,” Winnow beams, displaying an impressively white and complete set of teeth. “It be when our cleverness will mean more than their number.” The pair from District 9 nod and their fourth looks thoughtful.

“So, we run for the cornucopia – only killing if we have to defend ourselves – grab the supplies we want and then we get outta there,” Gaspar sums up and the others all assent. They look up and realise that both of the tributes from District 1 have already left for their private sessions. The four of them push their chairs back slightly from the table to finish off their food in greater comfort and openness. The boy from 3 has just been called, when Theodoros sidles up to them.

“Can I join you?” he asks, nervous and awkward.

“Of course!” beams Gaspar, his voice loud enough to echo around the whole cafeteria. “Anyone can join us.” Soon enough, Mukhbaza and the two tributes from District 6 have joined them and Gaspar is telling jokes. Servitus is the first to leave their table and everyone sends him off with calls of 'good luck'. After all, they can afford to be generous at this point as a good performance in one's private session does not guarantee a good performance in the arena. The next to go is Coriolana, who has shyly confided that she only turned 12 three weeks ago; a confession that makes Iristina's stomach turn with pity and revulsion. Barely ten minutes have passed before Renatus is summoned. He waves and there's another chorus of best wishes. At this rate, there will be an hour to wait before Gaspar is called but he's stolen a stick of greasepaint from the camouflage station and the four tributes from Districts 9 and 10 sit there playing the monster game with increasingly obscure words.

“Gaspar Barjon!” calls the head trainer and he stands up.

“See ya later, Tina,” he says to her before handing over the greasepaint. “Good luck, everyone.”

“Best wishes go with you,” replies Winnow.

“Yeah, best of luck, mate,” Iristina tosses at him, already bending back over their game as though she can't bear to look at him in this moment of parting. It's almost 20 minutes before anyone comes to fetch her and she wonders how fencing could have taken so long to demonstrate. She passes the greasepaint to Theodoros and walks away to face her fate. The Gamemakers are clustered in one spot on their raised seating with a board of food standing on the floor to their right. She walks past the knife-throwing range, around the end of their buffet table and comes to stand right in front of them. "Iristina Emmer, District 9," she announces, giving an ancient salute. A few look taken aback but all of them _are_ looking at her as she turns and makes her way over to the knife-throwing range. She can hear the rustle of robes and she knows they are interested by her choice of a station that she has not yet visited. She begins with the novice targets and to her severe annoyance does not hit the bull's eye with her first try. However, her second one does and when she aims her third at the target dummy, which is twice as far away, she hits it square in the forehead. Her third knife takes the next furthest dummy in the heart. She spends the rest of her fifteen minutes flinging knives at targets all over the gymnasium. It's more clinical than inspired but she has broken a sweat by the time she is dismissed.

“You may go,” the head Gamemaker, a blond giant, informs her and she deposits the remaining knives back at their station and bows to the Gamemakers before heading for the elevators with a purposeful stride. She knows she's acquitted herself adequately, both today and on the previous two, but she's not done anything exceptional, apart from that one spear-throw, and the survival skills training only pointed out how woefully lacking she was. She sighs, slightly depressed, and then the elevator doors open on a furore of feathers and gabbling voices.

“What _is_ going on in here?” she exclaims. “It's like'n Goody Twill's hen-coup got loose!”

“Oh, so sorry!” gasps Siprian, turning around, and she discovers the wheel of red and brown feathers are part of his coat and the waterfall of yellow ones are its collar. In fact, as she looks closer, she realises his entire coat is made of feathers. The gabbling, however, is coming from Perilla and Amina Heslot.

“What did you do, Gaspar?” she asks on a not-entirely-convincing laugh, swiftly putting two and two together. He grins up at her from where he's sprawling on the sofa and she's struck for a moment by just how good-looking he really is and then shoves the thought away with a flash of self-loathing.

“I painted a test dummy to look like Glaucus before taking a sword to it.”

“You didn't!” she says, trying to sound scandalised but only managing laughter. “You do know you're only supposed to show-case _one_ skill, right?” she adds, once she's recovered herself. He shrugs and she grins.

“I'm glad you think this it's funny,” hisses out Madame Heslot. “The Gamemakers won't think so.”

“Because he chose a peculiarly idiotic tribute, one whose own mentor doesn't think he has a chance of winning, as a target?” The girl treats the elder woman to a sardonic look. “I highly doubt it. They'll probably just put him down as ruthless or sadistic, which don't hurt in the Games.”

“The girl is right,” weighs in Adolphus and his knowing smile makes her realise that she's just slipped into a dominant role once more.

“What d'ya mean that Glaucus' mentor don't think he can win?” asks Gaspar, swinging himself upright.

“Yeah…” she begins, shifting her weight from foot to foot to make herself seem nervous and non-threatening. “I was meaning to tell you: Finnick Odair shared an elevator with me last night.”

“What?!”

“Oh, I–“

“But–“

“And you didn't tell us?!” demands Cai, crossing the floor and grabbing her by the arms. She feels a jolt of attraction shoot straight through her and realises her senses must be on full-blast; perhaps the trepidation she felt before the private session has heightened her awareness of everything. Keeping that suspicion in mind, she is very careful in her choice of words.

“I know mentors aren't allowed in the training rooms, so he must have come down and waited for me, specifically.” She draws a deep breath and looks into Cai's eye as Finnick had looked into hers. “I wasn't sure why he would do that, so I didn't want to say anything. But he did say that he thinks I could win and that his tributes aren't a threat to that.” The look he gives her in response to this bit of candour puts her much more in mind of secrets acts than anything Finnick Odair had said or done. She shakes herself free of the man and drops into a spare chair, willing her muscles not to rebel.

“That is of interest,” muses Adolphus. “He has a talent for spotting victors.”

“I don't want to hear this,” she spits out and everyone stares at her. “You're buttering me up – _softening_ me up – making me think this is easy and a foregone conclusion. It isn't! I have to outlive 23 other victors, including that one” – she gestures at Gaspar – “and survive whatever traps the Gamemakers have built into the arena. I don't want to hear how I'm certain to win, I just want advice on staying alive!” She throws herself out of the chair and strides off to her bedroom, the door of which she locks behind her. She's convinced that this a strategy that Gaspar and Madame Heslot have worked out to make her drop her guard and relax enough to give him the edge when it comes down to it. Of the 23 tributes she has to face, Gaspar is the one who scares her most because he is an enemy masquerading as a friend and the one who knows her best.

_I_ _& G_

They send Daria to fetch her for dinner but Iristina, now changed into a dress of brilliant scarlet, refuses to speak to the young woman. She doesn't trust any of them any more and she wonders what in Panem will happen when it comes time for sponsors' gifts to be apportioned. Dinner is a restrained affair, hardly enlivened by the additional presence of the stylists, who are clashing: she in a dress of chartreuse satin and he in a suit in four different shades of wine-red. In fact, Gaspar's open-mouthed chewing is the loudest sound throughout the meal. The girl escapes the table as soon as politely possible and has herself ensconced in the swivel arm-chair with the best view of the TV before the others have finished their meals.

“As you know, the tributes are rated on a scale of 1 to 12,” purrs Caesar Flickerman's familiar voice and all eyes turn to the TV. As per usual, the Careers place in the 8–10 range with Bess taking a higher score than Glaucus to Iristina's surprise and, suddenly, she finds herself wondering if Finnick was trying to get her to underestimate his charges to make her vulnerable. Calidia's score of ten gives her the shortest odds in the betting and, therefore, secures her the top spot on Iristina's kill list. There's nothing else of startling interest until Caesar Flickerman gets to their district. Gaspar's face comes up, she braces herself for the worst and it comes – eleven, he's got an eleven. When they flash up her own ten, she is certain that her district-partner is the one she has to beat. She can't put him high on her kill list but nor can she trust him to stick to the plan he outlined on the train. After all, she only has his word for it that he's ill. Winnow also pulls an eleven and Renatus had received an eight, so she knows her little band ought to get sponsors and a fair share of the betting once they survive the bloodbath. However, it's not pleasure but creeping, insidious fear that fills her heart.

“Well, that settles matters,” she bites out, all bitterness and bile. “We're the team to beat and you can be sure that's what the Careers are thinking. Six of them and they scored one ten, two of us and we scored a ten and an eleven.”

“Just wait 'til they see Winnow and Renatus be with us,” guffaws Gaspar and her nerve snaps. She grabs up a metal plate of sweets and goes to hurl it at his head but Cai catches her wrist and drags her out of the chair before she can release the missile.

“Let's get you to bed,” he says in a tone of firm decision and no flirtation. He drags her down the hall to her bedroom, tosses her in ahead of him and follows, locking the door behind him. “What has gotten _into_ you?”

“I don't know,” she wails. “Everyone's being so nice, even though they despise me, and I can't trust anyone!”

“Hey, hey, hey!” he soothes, the anger visibly flooding out of his body, and crosses to her. Cai catches her by the wrists again but, this time, uses the grip to tug her gently against him. “I don't despise you,” he tells her, firmly, and he re-arranges his arms to encircle her, cradling her against his chest. “Do you think… Can you trust me?” Her wild heartbeat is returning to normal in the privacy of her room and the comfort of his arms. No man has ever asked her to trust him, just to obey him and the idea of trusting anybody… but she'll need someone on her side when she's in the arena and Daria's fear won't be enough to secure her patronage.

“I'll try,” she promises, tilting her head back to look him in the eye. He smiles and then he makes the predictable next move, he kisses her. She has been kissed so many hundreds of times by so many men but never before has it been a sign that she's safe. Every kiss before this has been a mark of her desperation, her need for protection or food or shelter but, this time, she could end it with no repercussions. She could push him away, ask him to leave and he would do it without harming her – because he is actually _concerned_ for her. She doesn't stop the kiss, she doesn't push him away; instead, she luxuriates in the feeling of safety and security. It has never occurred to her that sex could be more than a bargaining-chip, a means to an end, but now she finds herself wanting to know what it would be like to be loved by a man who cares for her.

“Do you want me to leave?” he asks with unwonted seriousness, when they finally separate for breath. It's his honesty in place of the customary 'I should go' that decides her and Iristina takes his hand in hers.

“No,” she tells him with more honesty than she can ever remember imparting to anyone.

“You don't have to sleep with me,” he assures her. “I wouldn't–“

“I want to.”

“I thought you did,” he smirks and she laughs.

“Just kiss me again,” she instructs, teasingly, and he obeys. They aren't very ceremonious or romantic about things; each sheds their own clothes and they slide into bed separately. For once, it's the act she wants, not the power of being the most beautiful thing he's ever tapped. It occurs to her as Cai pulls her into another kiss under the sheets that, as a handsome victor, he has probably had any number of lovers who are much better looking than she is. Oddly, that thought comforts her. In fact, she begins to glow as she realises what it means that he has chosen her.

 


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own any of the Hunger Games characters (sigh), places or objects.  
> Everything you recognise from the original trilogy belongs to Suzanne Collins; anything that reminds you of the films probably belongs to the people who made those; and there are probably quotes and quirks borrowed from the myriad books I have read.

“As for the… inter… view, I want to go… with… _sex_ ,” breathes Pyrrhus, his voice both seductive and tremulous with excitement. “You're… the eldest… tribute I've ever… gotten and… you know how to… _move_. Plus… you… volunteered. I want to… show you… as the only adult… a bunch of… silly children.” That's how Iristina comes to be dressed in a floor-length sheath of gold silk with an asymmetrical hem, a deep v-neck and a slit that reaches up to her thigh for her interview. How, on the other hand, Gaspar came to be dressed in a silk tunic painted to look like chain-mail and leather trousers was beyond her. Pyrrhus, at least, has achieved his desired effect. When Caesar Flickerman turns to welcome her on stage, his customary parental encouragement dies from his eyes and his spine straightens.

“Well… _wow_ , Miss Emmer!” he beams, taking her hand. He hasn't used any of the other tributes' surnames and she smirks at the feeling of being unique.

“Please… call me 'Ares',” she purrs, taking the extended hand.

“Well, I have to say… you look _stunning_ , Ares,” he confides in a stage whisper.

“Thank you. I did notice your stunned look,” she flirts back, adding a wink, and he laughs. Then he leads her to the chairs and when she sits, crossing her legs, the slit parts so that the majority of her silk-clad right leg is on show. Caesar licks his gold-painted lips and a rustling comes from the stands as though thousands of people are shifting in their seats. She's always revelled in the power her beauty gives her, especially when it was the only power she did have, and now she's sure the Capitol can't ignore her.

“So, Ares, I have to say, I was very moved – and I'm sure so were many others – when you said that your district is your family.”

“Yes,” she begins, all seduction forgotten in her earnestness and leans towards him with her elbow on her topmost knee. “My district and, indeed, Panem have always been very important to me. My first loyalty will always be be to them as I have no family.” Caesar's face breaks into a broad grin.

“But there must be someone special cheering you on back home. A boyfriend, perhaps?”

“No boyfriend, no,” she laughs, taking vindictive pleasure in striking Krill from her narrative. “I'm a free woman.” Her smirk is wide and it takes a conscious effort to not recross her legs. “In fact, there's no-one special cheering me on from District 9, not even my best friend.”

“Why not?” Caesar asks, sensing juicy gossip. She almost regrets how easy it is to manipulate him. “Is she angry at you for volunteering?”

“No,” she chuckles and now she does recross her legs, conscious of every eye in Panem on her silk-clad limbs. “It's just that he's waiting backstage to come on once we're done.”

“Oh, you and Gaspar Barjon…” The host pulls back and reclines in his seat.

“Are best friends. Nothing else, I promise you.” She winks again and he chuckles.

“But you two looked very comfortable during the Tributes' Parade.” He waggles his eyebrows at her.

“Sorry, Caesar, no romance here.”

“But tell us, why _did_ you both volunteer? You can't both win,” he reminds her, his voice caressing.

“It's not about winning,” she answers with quiet composure, flirtation having fled in favour of adult responsibility, just as Adolphus and Cai had advised her that morning. “Not for us. I mean, we'd like to win and get all that extra food for 9 but that's not why we volunteered.” She lets herself fall into a melancholy silence and actually requires Caesar's prompt to tell the audience the real reason she's doing this. “The children,” she responds in a tight voice. “In the last three years, District 9 has been represented by babies – tributes who were unable to defend themselves – and Gaspar and I…” Now, she chokes up completely, unable to stop the tears welling up. Caesar's face softens and he reaches for her hand. She clutches his extended and Gaspar and I…” Now, she chokes up completely, unable to stop the tears welling up. Caesar's face softens and he reaches for her hand. She clutches his extended appendage and smiles up at him, focussing on his face as she pulls herself back together. “Gaspar and I decided – after last year, when both tributes again died on the first day – that we couldn't stand aside and watch any more babies get slaughtered.”

“That's very brave,” murmurs Caesar. “To sacrifice yourself for all those younger children. Your district must be very proud and surprised by your actions?”

“I don't think anyone's surprised,” she tells him with a watery laugh.

“Oh? Do tell. Don't keep us in suspense, Ares.” He's flirting again and the whole atmosphere is beginning to lighten.

“When I was 13, a fire broke out at my school.” There's a chorus of 'oohs' and 'ahs' from the crowd that she has to let subside before she can continue. “I helped to get 24 of the youngest kids to safety.” A thought hits her and a genuine smile blossoms across her face. “In fact, Ashlee Briskman was one of those kids.”

“Ashlee Briskman?” inquires Caesar, smiling and frowning at the same time.

“She's the girl whose name was drawn at the Reaping this year.”

“Oh, so you've saved her life twice now?” he suggests and Iristina laughs, all easy coquetry once more.

“I guess I have, Caesar.”

“Are you friends?”

“Um… not exactly. She's the mayor's niece and Gaspar is good friends with the mayor's son, so I know the family and her parents have asked me to babysit some nights.” The image of her and Krill in the Briskmans' drawing-room floods her for a second but she shoves it aside.

“I'm afraid we're running out of time,” Caesar begins and the crowd groans. “Can you tell us – are you going to win?” She laughs and tosses her hair, so that the golden flecks and accessories catch the light. A proud smile settles onto her lips before she answers.

“I won't make promises that I'm not certain I can keep,” she grins and the crowd laughs with her. “However, I can promise you that, this year, both tributes for District 9 _will_ make it to Day 2.” Caesar laughs and the pair rise together as the audience breaks into a storm of applause. As she stands there, listening to the crowd screaming her new name, Iristina feels like she's on top of the world.

“I like your confidence,” booms the man still holding her hand. “Iristina Emmer, tribute from District _9_!” The cheering redoubles and Caesar escorts her to the stage exit.

_I_ _& G_

They're all in the wings to greet her as Gaspar receives a thunderous welcome from the hyped-up audience. Daria hugs her tightly, Amina actually nods to her, Adolphus and Thell each grant her an approving nod and Cai smiles at her in the same way he had when she woke up that morning.

“That was… sen-say-tion-al,” slurs a stranger who has dark curls falling into his bleary eyes, coming over to them with a tall, dark-skinned friend in tow. “Every man out there wants to fuck you!”

“Only the men, Mr Abernathy?” she queries, proffering a hand and a self-satisfied smirk. “I seem to have missed half my audience.” He wheezes out a laugh and then plants a slobbery kiss on the back of her hand. Before he can say anything more or the District 11 victor can introduce himself, the applause dies away and Amina waves them all into silence.

“So, Gaspar, we've just heard from Ares, your best friend.” Caesar waits a beat and then adds: “Is that really _all_ it is?” The host is waggling his gold-dyed eyebrows at the boy but Gaspar just laughs, a carefree laugh.

“As she said: sorry but there's no romance here. I know, she looks dazzling tonight–“ He's interrupted by a storm of cheering and Haymitch Abernathy claps her on the shoulder, Cai sends her a wink and the District 11 victor – Chaff Medlar, she remembers – has the presumption to kiss her on the lips. “Yes, she's dazzling tonight but we've known each other for… eight years. Yikes! That makes me feel old. Anyway, back then, she were this scrawny little cat and I've never seen her as anything but a friend.”

“Surely, a looker like you, must have girls throwing themselves at him, though? There must someone back home, am I right?” Caesar laughs and Gaspar joins in. Despite the ridiculous costume, he looks as comfortable on the stage as she had felt, which does nothing to make her feel better towards her district-partner.

“Yeah. Well… there was. I'd been going with my girl for a few months now.”

“But you still volunteered?” prompts Caesar, still hoping for a love story. “With the whole of your life ahead of you, you volunteered to go into the arena and fight your best friend. Why?” Gaspar gives a bitter laugh and there's a tinny quality to it. As he shifts into a combative posture, the costume stops looking ridiculous and instead looks like armour.

“No, I volunteered to help my best friend bring honour to District 9. As for the whole of my life… well, it's only another three years.” Iristina feels her mouth drop open and it sounds like the entire audience has let out their breath in a collective gasp.

“I thought… he told me we be keeping that silent,” she whispers at last.

“I thought the doomed martyr who wants his death to mean something was more heroic,” comments Amina Heslot, her tone matter-of-fact.

“Damn good strategy,” mutters the only surviving victor from District 12 and his friend nods. “Wish mine had a story.” She only half-listens to him or Gaspar as the boy unwinds his sob-story, giving greater detail than when he had told it to her. Her mind is occupied with trying to unpick the strategy constructed by her district-partner and his favourite mentor. The fear that Cai had managed to displace begins to creep back as she realises just what an accomplished story-teller he is, down to his uncanny ability to accurately assess his audience.

“So, is any of that story real?” she demands, rounding on the eldest female victor.

“What do you mean?” Madame Heslot is staring at her like she's crazy.

“He's been lying to her, too,” she mutters to herself and Cai crosses to her, wrapping an arm around her shoulders.

“Ares?”

“I'm fine, Cai,” she assures him with an irritable, convulsive shake. “Nice to meet you, Mr Abernathy, Mr Medlar.” Her sense of manners satisfied, she swivels in a hiss of silk and strides for the elevators. She forces herself to stop before joining the back of the crowd, turns back to the knot of victors, drops her weight onto her back foot and winks at them, a masking smile in place.

_I_ _& G_

Cai catches her up before she makes it into an elevator and takes her hand, causing a silly grin to spread across her face. They don't have the car to themselves, however, so nothing more interesting happens on their way up to the ninth floor.

“Don't you look lovely,” she gushes, beaming at the male tribute from District 8, who is 12-years-old and got a two in training. He does look very dapper; his stylist has evidently tried to make him look older as he is dressed in a midnight-blue suit that's not dissimilar to Pyrrhus' style. However, the boy's floppy sandy hair keeps falling into his eyes, making him look even younger and she knows she could never kill him. She knows that if, by some miracle, it came down to him or her in the arena, she'd cut her own throat than his. Renatus' district-partner, Viatrix, and her mentor, Blight, are the other two occupants of their car. The girl is resolutely silent but the man chats happily enough.

“Cai!” he grins, clapping the older man on the shoulder. “Your girl here… you were sensational, Ares.” She smirks at the compliment, so similar to that of Haymitch Abernathy, and shakes his hand. “Have you seen the betting?”

“Yes! Gaspar's doing terrifically,” she exclaims with fake enthusiasm and a roll of her eyes. The man laughs.

“Sorry, that was a bit insensitive, wasn't it?”

“It's fine,” she assures him with a broad smile. “We're actually on _very_ good terms.” She lets her eyebrows imply things that she and her district-partner have just been strenuously denying on national TV. The victor takes her coquetry in good part and gives her a kiss on the cheek before pushing Viatrix out of the doors ahead of him. She looks around and sees the little boy staring up at her with wide eyes. Unthinkingly, she reaches out and swipes the hair out of his eyes, he gives her a shy smile in response.

“I'll see you tomorrow, Ares,” he pipes up before exiting when they reach his floor. Once the doors have rolled shut again, she turns and presses her forehead against the crystal, tears choking her.

“Iristina?” whispers Cai, putting a hand on her bear shoulder.

“I know,” she squeaks out. “It's just so…” The doors open and she runs headlong for her bedroom, almost falling flat on her face due to the ridiculous platform heels Pyrrhus has her wearing. She chucks off the offending articles as soon as she's through the sliding beech panel and then runs for the bathroom sink to remove the light make-up that is beginning to run, thanks to her tears. He follows her, of course, all the way to the bathroom. However, it is not until she is devoid of powder, face cream, eye shadow, lipstick, eye-liner, mascara and lip-liner that she looks up at his reflection. “I can't _do_ this, Cai! I can't kill all these _children_!”

“You don't have to,” he whispers, sliding his hands up her back to her shoulders and then slipping them around her neck. She smiles at him in the mirror and trips backward into him. They both chuckle and he hugs her tighter to him. “The Careers will kill most of them, you focus on killing Careers. Keep your allies close and Gaspar closer.” She laughs at that, leaning her head back against him. “And your knives closer still,” he adds in all seriousness.

“I know, Cai,” she assures him with a world-weary sigh. “I _am_ going to make it through this, I promise. This…” She gestures helplessly at the mess of the sink. “It was a moment of weakness.” She shrugs. “I'm going to get into the shower. I'll see you at dinner.” He nods, kisses her temple and leaves. She sheds the dress, feeling hardly any more naked without it, and tosses the sheer-silk stockings, underclothes and jewellery on top of it. She takes her time in the shower, letting the warm water relieve her trembling frame of the goose-flesh that had risen in re-action to her emotional state. It occurs to her that, at the moment, she is living in the intervals between time spent in the shower or at the dining table. She laughs to herself as she realises just how absurdly luxuriant this lifestyle is in comparison to that of most people in District 9 and how she will be living in the arena. She shuts off the water, lets the dryer do its work, walks through to the wardrobe and grabs the sweater and pants combo she decided on before leaving for the interview. When she joins the others at the dining table, she's disgusted to see that Gaspar is still in his ridiculous costume.

“They say me you didn't stay for the end of me interview,” he says in greeting, looking up from what she guesses is not his first glass of wine. She grabs one from the tray held by a waiting Avox, downs half of it and then retorts:

“I've heard ya speak enough ter know when ye're selling some sucker a heap of bullshit.” She knows Madame Heslot and Daria's faces have gone slack with shock but this is the last night of life she's guaranteed and she's not going to pull her punches now. Gaspar jumps to his feet, knocking his plate and glass flying, a vein pulsing in his throat.

“How dare ye? Ye… cheap little whore!”

“That be the worse what ye can fling at me? I heard worse in me cradle!” She adds that derisive sneer that he could never walk away from as a kid and, true to form, he throws himself at her but Adolphus trips him up and he goes sprawling. She frowns at the mentor but then she crouches down on her haunches and takes her district-partner's face in her hands. “You can't hurt me, anymore, little boy.” She looks up at the adults with his face still pressed between her palms. “Don't pin all your hopes on this fool; there'll always be someone to bring him to his knees.”

_I_ _& G_

The atmosphere at this night's meal isn't much of an improvement on the night before, despite half of the diners keeping up a brittle conversation on light subjects. Gaspar is glaring daggers at her and she is fighting mounting fear of what is to come tomorrow. Even through the interviews, sitting curled up in her favourite arm-chair, she can't concentrate on anything but her forebodings. When the screen fills with her own visage and everyone else gasps, she can only groan at how very obvious she was. They all adore her, as do the audience, but she wishes she had been more herself. That thought brings her up short; who is she? Is she really anything more than a cheap little whore who can be bought for the price of a bed on a wet night, three square meals a day or a kind word in the Hunger Games commentary? Is there really anything more to her? Perhaps not, she concedes, but she knows that could all change, if she wins. So, she forces her body to relax, stretches her toes out into the brown lambskin rug and winks at Daria and Cai, who reward her with grins. She can play this game, has been since she was 13, and then she can re-invent herself after she wins. Maybe she'll take up something ladylike and genteel as her talent. Finally,Theodoros finishes, the anthem plays and then they are free to go to bed for the last time before the Games begin.

“Goodnight,” Gaspar growls before stamping off to his room. Iristina, on the other hand, takes her time. She knows this will be the last time she will see most of the team before the Games. She stands up, stretches her arms above her head – giving them the advantage of her full height and a glimpse of mid-drift – and then begins to make her way around the room.

“Gaius… it's been such a pleasure to finally get to know you. Perilla, an honour. Pyrrhus, I'll see you in the morning, bright and early. Rian–“ Whatever she had planned to say is knocked out of her as the escort wraps his arms around her tightly and begins to weep into her shoulder. Eventually, the stylist pulls his bulky lover off of her and Iristina staggers over to the Barvens.

“We will be watching,” Adolphus tells her, gripping her fingers. She looks into his eyes and nods, showing him that she has taken in his message.

“I'll be praying to you,” she jokes before turning to Daria and embracing the older girl. “Daria… me darling dear.” She laughs as she realises the old adage has slipped from her tongue after all. “Get me a sponsor or two, eh?” They both make an attempt at laughter and then she steps back, turning to where Cai had been standing.

“He went after Gaspar,” Madame Heslot informs her with a sneer as she steps forward to shake hands. The girl doesn't disabuse her but shakes the proffered extremity. She smiles at them all, a little weakly, and bows her head to this ring of Hunger Games notables. This time next year, she'll be one of them; she hopes.

_I_ _& G_

As she expects, when she enters her room, Cai is waiting for her. He's lounging across the end of her bed in nothing but an open shirt with sleeves rolled to the elbow, socks and underwear. She chuckles at the image of perfect ease he's projecting.

“Cai…” she sighs.

“What?!” he demands, sitting up immediately.

“Not tonight, Cai.”

“Why not tonight? Tomorrow you'll be in the arena.”

“I know,” she breathes out, heavily. “I wish I could but, I told you, I wasn't angling for a victor and, if I'm going to land my fish, it will be tonight.” Cai stares at her, disbelieving.

“What was I? A one-night-stand who can help you in the Games?!” She winces as his rebuke cuts a little too close to the bone.

“While it's true that I have only slept with you one night and you _can_ help me in the Games, that's not why I did it.” Suddenly, he's in front of her, gripping her elbows.

“Then _why_ , Iristina?” She sighs and lets her head droop.

“Because… you made me feel special. No-one's ever made me fell like I was… important before, no-one's ever cared if I lived or died, if I was happy or not before.” He starts to chuckle deep in his chest and she looks up with wide-eyed confusion.

“You can be incredibly self-centred, sometimes,” he tells her, still chuckling. He cups her face and presses a kiss to her lips. “Come back to me.” She freezes in his arms.

“If I come back, it won't be for you, it will be for me. Cai, I am my own person.”

“Yeah,” he snorts. “Don't I know it.” He kisses her forehead and leaves, although she can tell he isn't happy. However, at three in the morning, her decision is proved correct. She's wakened from a fitful doze by a triple tap at her door and, when she opens it, she finds the man she has spent all night trying to bait waiting for her.

“Mr Flickerman,” she gasps in fake surprise.

“Please… call me 'Caesar',” he whispers into her ear as he edges past her.

“What're you doing here?” she asks, wide-eyed, once the door is safely shut behind him.

“I couldn't let you go into the arena without telling you, _privately_ , how much I admire your spirit,” he smarms, stepping into her personal space. She knows he expects her to act demure, so she retreats until her back is against the wall. “Come now,” he purrs into her ear. “I know you're more spirited than this… I saw it tonight.”

“Mr Flickerman–“

“My dear,” he growls and palms her left breast, making it impossible for her to conceal her arousal. “Stop playing games.” She lets out a breathy laugh at the irony of his instruction before pressing herself against the length of him and crashing her lips against his. They rip the clothes from each other's body – she hopes she has done permanent damage to that ridiculous suit – and stagger to her rumpled bed, locked together. He's decidedly more aroused than she is and requires no extra attention from her to be able to perform the deed, neither the first time nor the second.

 


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own any of the Hunger Games characters (sigh), places or objects.  
> Everything you recognise from the original trilogy belongs to Suzanne Collins; anything that reminds you of the films probably belongs to the people who made those; and there are probably quotes and quirks borrowed from the myriad books I have read.

The next morning proves amusing, for her, at least. An insistent knock rouses her before dawn and her groan of complaint wakes her bed-mate. She gets up, completely naked, and opens the door to find Pyrrhus looking as tired as she feels.

“Time to… oh!” At her stylist's unwonted alertness, she turns to see Caesar Flickerman picking up his clothes from the floor. It occurs to her, as she watches him, that his body is far too trim for a man of his age; he must have regular cosmetic surgeries. Eventually, he straightens up with the bundle of clothing over his crotch and she smirks at him.

“Feel free to use my bathroom. I have to go. Let the Games begin,” she adds, widening her eyes in a slightly manic way. She crosses to the master-of-ceremonies, kisses him swiftly and then rejoins Pyrrhus in the doorway. The stylist forces her into a simple shift and then covers it with a fox-fur cloak. “Goodbye, Caesar. Wish me well.”

“May the odds be in your favour.” Her lips twist at the stock Capitol sentiment, even if he had varied it.

“Guess that'll have to do. Keep an eye out for me, won't ya?” She winks at him and then slips into the corridor behind the stylist. He leads her to the balcony, where a hovercraft is waiting for them. She steps up onto the ladder, the cloak pulled tight around her, and some sort of current glues her to the metal rungs as the ladder is retracted into the vehicle. A white-coated attendant approaches her and injects something into her arm, which explains why Pyrrhus provided her with a cloak and not a coat. While she and her stylist are picking listlessly at their breakfasts, Iristina tries to remember what the person – she can't even remember if they were male or female – had said was in the injection. Ravenous from her exertions of the last few hours, she eats a good deal of the food provided.

“You…” begins the stylist, startling her as she has temporarily forgotten his presence. “Caesar Flickerman?”

“Yeah, well, you and Siprian Cotton?” she scoffs back at him. “What's the point in that? Flickerman can do me some good in the arena – sympathetic commentary, exclamations at my prowess, that can influence sponsors and the betting.” She gives an elaborate shrug, which makes the neckline of her shift slip down one shoulder.

“It's not about… sex?”

“What do you mean by that?” she frowns, leaning back in her seat. “Sex isn't a thing in itself. People have sex for all sorts of reason, most of them to do with power of one sort or another. I had sex with Flickerman to buy his power over the audience; I had sex with Krill to demonstrate his power over me; and I had sex with any number of men in District 9 because they had the power to give me food or shelter.” She gives another of those shrugs.

“Cai?” Her head snaps up and she stares at him; she _had_ thought they had got away with it.

“I said, it's _mostly_ to do with power,” she begins, hesitantly. “Cai and I… I guess… it's about the _absence_ of power. I mean, yeah, he has some say in signing up sponsors and all the rest of it but he has no power over _me_ , he just wants to help me, and I have no power over him, I'm just one of a thousand.” Pyrrhus' eyebrows shoot up in disbelief but he refrains form saying anything. Suddenly, the windows go black and she knows they're almost there. She doesn't feel excited anymore, merely determined. So, she turns her thoughts to what winning will mean and how meaningless her life will be if she loses. She knows she has made an alright impression on the minds of the Capitol but nothing that will last past the end of these Games. There have been some tributes in the history of the Hunger Games who have made such a strong impression – good or ill – that they are still remembered, although they didn't win. However, Iristina knows she is not one of these – the sexy young woman with a maternalistic attitude to her district is not going to stick in anyone's mind, even if she did volunteer.

_I &G_

She looks around her Launch Room with a proud smile. This place is hers and hers alone – no-one else will get dressed here, no-one else will await the defining moment of their life here. She imagines that, one day, she will return here with some handsome Capitol lover or husband. In fact, she's sure there'll be a great party of them – instead of the minimal human element of herself and Pyrrhus – and they'll follow the steps she's about to take to become the victor of the sixty-ninth Hunger Games.

“It's time to prepare for launch.” The cool, female voice drags her from her daydreams of the future into the stark reality of her present. She realises that she's terrified. Yes, when she gets out there, she'll have her own pack but they have no idea whether they'll be close together or widely spaced. Yes, they're planning to fight the Career Pack but there's only four of them and six Careers. If the latter have decided that killing off the highest-ranking opposition is more important than securing the supplies, they might all die on Day 1, after all. And what if the Careers get to the Cornucopia first? Can her gang cope without weapons? She has to shake off these ephemeral fears as the plate beneath her feet is beginning to rise.

  
  


Cai and the rest of the audience at Games HQ are shocked by their first sight of this year's arena. It's an island; more than that, it's a mountain with a wide plateau at the top and a narrow beach at the foot. The slopes are densely forested but there won't be much chance for the tributes to escape one another. Suddenly, the screen is filled with a close-up of the mountain's crown and the 24 figures rising around its edge. The tributes are evenly spaced from one another and none of them have less than 250 metres of detritus-strewn rock between them and the Cornucopia. He's almost certain that the two alliances and the girl from District 7 will make it out of there alive – he certainly hopes so – but it's possible no-one else will.

"Ladies and gentlemen, let the sixty-ninth Hunger Games begin!" announces Templesmith in his booming voice. Then, the worst happens. A little girl, who has been shaking like a leaf since she was pushed out of her cylinder, falls off and the landmine detonates.

  
  


Several of the other tributes jump in reaction and Iristina marvels that none of them follow Coriolana's lead. She is shaken, of course, but she remains calm and still, more interested in the acoustics of the crater than the corpse sliding down the embankment, off to her right.

  
  


On the screens in the Games Headquarters, they are replaying the girl's premature death in slow-motion and close-up. Cai finally places her as the girl from 6 in the instant before she tumbles from the plate, hitting the ground head-first. When the landmine explodes in a billow of red and orange, it is her head that is blown off, not her legs. It is one of the more gruesome, Gamemaker-inflicted deaths that Cai has ever seen.

“Yet none of our favourites have turned a hair,” says Flickerman's jocular voice as the camera passes quickly from Winnow to Gaspar to Iristina to Calidia.

  
  


She has located Winnow; three to her left with the baby boy from 8 and a 14-year-old girl between them. She can only hope that her ally sticks to the plan. After all, Winnow is a victim – forced here by chance and, no doubt, fighting to get back to a family who love her – so why should she have the same compunction about murdering little kids as the volunteers from District 9? The gong sounds and Iristina is sprinting for the Cornucopia. Part of her mind notes that the two children who separated her and Winnow have disappeared backward off the crown, not stopping to collect _any_ supplies. She can see and hear fights breaking out all around her but she is focussed on reaching that golden horn. She leaps an empty water-carrier, disdaining to collect anything until she reaches the weapon cache, and sprints on without breaking stride. To her relief, Renatus is the first tribute to reach the weapons, immediately catching up two wicked-looking axes. She's less pleased to see Viatrix, his deranged district-partner, collect a bow and quiver. It's not that any of her team could use the equipment but she's loathed to let a range weapon fall into the hands of an adversary. However, there's no time to reflect on this oversight as Winnow, having reached the Cornucopia, is catching up a spear and turning to confront one of the male Careers, whose hands are already covered in blood.

“Winnow!” she screams. “Get down!” Her shout gives the younger girl enough time to duck the metal cannister that the boy from 2 was aiming at her head. Iristina dives, catching Canus around the knees and knocking him to the ground. He writhes beneath her, trying to raise his improvised weapon. However, she swarms over him and presses all her weight onto his right arm. Suddenly, a heavy metal blade swings down inches from her face and takes off Canus' head. She looks up, panting, and sees Renatus' grim face. Somewhere behind her, a girl screams and she swivels to see four of the other Careers are loaded with weapons and some supplies.

“Proc!” screams Canus' district-partner. “Let's get outta here!” The red-handed brute snarls but then he stumbles backward and the five remaining Careers turn and run.

  
  


“Well, this is interesting,” Flickerman says to Templesmith. “The initial bloodbath still isn't over and two alliances already seem to be established.”

“Yes,” nods the younger-looking man. “With two of our favourites on one side and Calidia Murano on the other. Gaspar Barjon is the wild-card.”

  
  


“Where's Gaspar?” she demands, putting her hands on the corpse's chest to lever herself up.

“No idea,” shrugs Winnow.

“I've not seen him, either,” squeaks out Renatus in a high-pitched, carrying voice.

“Damn!” swears Iristina, accepting a knife-belt from the other girl. “Shelter, food and weapons – those are our priorities. The original plan still applies; the Careers _will_ be back. With a vengeance,” she adds under her breath.

“Where are you going?” challenges Winnow, blocking her path.

“To see if I can spot Gaspar. Don't worry – I'll carry my fair share.”

  
  


Cai sees his girl – life-sized, splattered in blood and with mud-stains up her front – give a wink and his heart leaps. She jogs along one side of the Cornucopia, cautiously scanning her surroundings as she goes. It's only when she reaches the tail that she spots Gaspar, who is still bending over his first victim. Behind him, dancing through the debris, is the boy from District 10 with a length of irrigation piping in his hands. Iristina doesn't hesitate; with a sigh, she unerringly pulls a blade from her belt, draws back her arm and sends the knife spinning through the air to stick in the younger tribute's thorax.

“Are you joining us or what?” she throws at Gaspar, who looks up in shock.

  
  


“He's spent all this time _strangling_ someone,” she informs the others, dryly, when she and her district-partner reach the mouth of the Cornucopia. Winnow nods abstractedly, intent on pawing through a box of medicines.

“How is your arm?” asks the younger girl.

“My arm?” frowns Iristina. She looks down at her arms and finds a thin scratch running up the outside of her left one. “How did _that_ happen?”

“When you dived for his legs. I had stuck out my spear to trip him but the point caught your arm. I am sorry.”

“No, it's fine. Doesn't even hurt… yet.”

“Here. Apply this.” Winnow tosses a tube across, which the older girl stuffs into an outside pocket of the nearest rucksack.

“Thanks, I will. _Later_. Right now, we need to grab what we want and get gone. I wanna be as far from this summit as possible come nightfall. The Careers are like to come back here to set up camp.” The four of them spend another 5 minutes picking through the supplies in and around the Cornucopia.

“Water or iodine?” calls Renatus, while the other three are forming their chosen supplies into bundles.

“We can get water from the sea and its heavy, so let's take the iodine,” answers Gaspar, not looking up from tightening the webbing around his sleeping-bag. He still hasn't addressed a word directly to her and this cold-shoulder treatment is already beginning to fray Iristina's raw nerves.

“Well, let's start with full canteens, at least,” she laughs. “No point starting out with _nothing_ to drink.”

“I am ready,” announces Winnow. “Shall we go?”

  
  


“I wonder if they will realise that a trap has been set for them,” muses Templesmith and Flickerman laughs.

“Of course, she will!” Cai is taken aback by the master-of-ceremonies' choice of pronoun but Adolphus is smiling broadly.

“I see she did get to him, after all.”

“What do you mean?” demands the younger man, a sneaking suspicion making him more short-tempered than usual.

“Caecilius, my boy, her whole interview was aimed at seducing Caesar Flickerman. Did you not realise?” He shakes his head, lost for words at his girl's cold-hearted audacity.

  
  


They decide to descend the mountain through the gap at which the Cornucopia's tail is pointing as it's not the direction in which the Career Pack headed and Gaspar, who started off over there, tells them the tributes on either side of him have been killed. It's as they're skirting Lois' corpse that Winnow lets out a heart-felt shriek. Iristina glances around the rest of the crater as her ally runs for crumpled figure of her district-partner. They converge on the body of the 13-year-old, which Winnow is bending over.

“Come on!” hisses the other girl. “We _have_ to get outta here.”

“Just one minute,” snaps back the younger tribute. “I have to get this.” She pulls a collar of woven grasses, worked into a complicated design, from his neck. “He wants– wanted this to get back to his grandmother and he feared it would get lost or destroyed… on his way back home.”

“OK,” whispers Iristina, realising that perhaps she and Winnow have more in common after all. “Last one standing returns it on their Victory Tour.” The boys nod and the other girl accepts her hand to get up.

“Let's see if the Careers have left us a present,” says Gaspar, sourly, leading the way to the lip of the plateau. “Tadia was too bloody good at traps for comfort.”

“Try these,” Renatus offers, holding out a pair of nunchaku.

  
  


“Ah, see? I told you they would figure it out,” beams Flickerman, once Gaspar has used the weapon to activate the trip-wire the Careers set up all around the cone. When the five remaining tributes from Districts 1, 2 and 4 arrive, Iristina and her gang are waiting with weapons drawn. Cai grins at the tableau. The camera is obviously in the tree-line as it is looking up at these four young heroes on the crest of the mountain. Gaspar is furthest left, standing tall and proud, with a sword in one hand and a mace in the other; next comes Renatus, looking deadly with an axe in each hand, one still covered in Canus' blood; Iristina is third, smiling complacently and flipping a broad-bladed knife through the air with her right hand; and, finally, there's Winnow with her district-partner's collar now fastened around her own throat and her spear held diagonally across her body in both hands. He's having a drink with a group of lady sponsors and they all sigh at the sight.

“Like what you see?” he asks, smirking.

“They're magnificent,” flutters the youngest one.

“Do you think they're going to have a battle?” demands her aunt with unseemly eagerness.

“Let's watch and see,” he purrs, fluttering dark lashes at the older woman.

  
  


“We're leaving,” Gaspar shouts down to the Careers. “There's some food left, the odd tent. You're welcome to it.” The girl from District 1, their greatest rival, laughs.

“Why shouldn't we fight you now?” she calls back.

“Well, I suppose, we _could_ kill you now but 14 deaths on the first day would be a bit boring, wouldn't it? We'll catch you later,” he promises and all four of their alliance smirk.

“You saw what they did to Canus,” says Tadia in a carrying whisper. “Leave it. We'll get them later.”

“Fine!” snaps the other girl. “We'll see you tomorrow!”

“I look forward to it,” laughs Iristina and the four of them charge down the mountainside, making the Careers close rank and raise their weapons. Once safely in the trees, she and her gang put their weapons away.

“The beach?” suggests Renatus and the others all assent.

 


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own any of the Hunger Games characters (sigh), places or objects.  
> Everything you recognise from the original trilogy belongs to Suzanne Collins; anything that reminds you of the films probably belongs to the people who made those; and there are probably quotes and quirks borrowed from the myriad books I have read.

By the time the anthem plays, they have set up camp about 10 metres from the beach with sleeping-bag-lined hammocks slung between the trees and fish cooking on an open fire. The seal flashes up and they all cluster together to watch the faces appear in the sky. The first face is that of Canus with a large number 2 beneath it; Gaspar claps Renatus on the shoulder and the gang hear a ragged cheer from somewhere deeper in the forest. Next, there's the boy from 3, both of the tributes from 5 and both Servitus and Coriolana.

“She's mine,” mutters Gaspar as the District 8 girl appears above them.

“And he's mine,” his partner replies as the boy from 10 replaces her. Then it's Mukhbaza's face and Iristina puts her arm around the other girl. Finally, Theodoros' face flashes up. “Theodoros and Servitus both gone,” murmurs Iristina. “That just leaves us, the Careers and Viatrix.”

“There's another four tributes out there,” protests Renatus. The girl gives him a scornful look and goes back to tending the fish.

  
  


“So, they're still alive, then!” yells Haymitch, plopping onto the seat beside Cai. He extends a bottle and the other man takes a swig.

“Yeah. Alive, well-fed and comfortable but red to the elbows; Capitol aren't gonna get bored just yet.”

“Come on! Your two are the Capitol _darlings_!”

“Come off it! They be all abou' _Calidia_.”

“Nah! They have to say that stuff 'cause she's the Career with the highest score but there'd be uproar if the Gamemakers went after your two.”

“It's not gonna be long,” sighs Cai, helping himself to another pull from his friend's bottle. “The size of that arena, two gangs… It ain't gonna be long at all.”

“Who's idea were that? The alliance?”

“Hers.” He can feel the grin tugging at his lips. “She got this… incredible brain.” Haymitch pushes himself up from the couch and swivels to stare at his friend.

“No… you didn't? You did! You fucked her, didn't you?”

“Yeah,” rasps out the other man but he has to chug down a lot more of the liquor before he can tell the rest. “So did” – he coughs, dribble running down his chin – “Caesar Flickerman.”

“You're _kidding_?!” splutters the other victor and Cai shakes his head, furiously. “Damn! Thought she were getting bloody good coverage.” He can't take the pity in the other guy's eyes and averts his to the bottle. “So… bet you've got sponsors lining up.”

“Yeah but they don't need anything. Look at 'em!”

  
  


Renatus wakes her two hours after the moon rose. She hates being woken after only six hours, especially as she got so little sleep the night before, but she rolls out of the sleeping-bag and hammock.

“Very elegant,” grins the younger boy, impishly. She chuckles, silently, and ruffles his hair. He hands over the thermal jacket, which is barely warmed from his body heat, unlike the sleeping-bag into which he's now sliding. She rolls her eyes and walks over to the banked up fire and sits on the clods of turf. Although Winnow's spear is lying beside her – they had decided that's the easiest weapon for any of them to use – Iristina feels comfortable. Despite the fact she's in the middle of a deadly competition, she doesn't feel scared. They're a team, they have enough to eat and the Career Pack are running scared. She just hopes the tension of two gangs will be enough to keep the Gamemakers from getting bored because who knows what they might do if they feel that life is too easy for the tributes. She sits there on the gradually cooling sod, getting increasingly stiff, and wakes the others once the sun is well-risen.

“I'm getting back into the hammock. Someone wake me when breakfast's ready,” she growls, her voice hoarse from lack of sleep and lack of use.

“My turn to fish,” Gaspar says as though being magnanimous, which seems a little ridiculous as he has slept through the whole night. Winnow glowers at him and sets to waking the fire up again, while Renatus – the youngest and skinniest of them – dons the thermal jacket and refills their water bottles. Winnow wakes her an hour later by pushing her out of the hammock. She wakes, still encased in the sleeping-bag, falling face first towards the forest floor. She struggles out of the bag and spins around to hurl pine-cones at her assailant. The other girl laughs and chucks a handful of sand back at her, which lands in her mouth because she's laughing so hard. She spits out the mouthful of sand and is just looking for something with which to retaliate, when the cannon sounds. The laughter dies and the two girls are immediately running for the shoreline, each grabbing up a spear en route. However, the boys are there to meet them; Renatus carrying his axe and Gaspar the fishing trident.

“Careers,” growls Winnow, her face transformed from the happy girl of a minute before into a mask of hatred.

“Who… who do you think it was?” asks Renatus, his voice trembling.

“Could be any of them,” spits out Iristina, the after-effects of fear making her bitter. “Girl from 3, Theodoros' partner–“

“8 and 10,” asserts Gaspar as a second cannon sounds. “I saw them up a tree together yesterday on our way down here.”

“Damn it!” rails his district-partner. She rams the spear-point into the sand with a similar amount of force to that employed by Gaspar during the Tributes' Parade and then strides back up to their camp-site. Angrily, she begins pulling down hammocks and repacking the bedding into their bundles.

  
  


He watches as her allies slowly return to their tasks and stay clear of his girl. No-one within ear-shot in the arena or watching on TV could doubt her deadliness in that instant. He does not look forward to her watching the highlights, considering how fond she had seemed of the boy when they were in the elevator; his death was a bad one. If she could see the footage, Cai knows she would throw caution to the wind and go after Proc with a filleting-blade.

“Why is she so upset?” demands Amina from the opposite side of the breakfast table.

“She was fond of the boy,” he tells her with a sigh.

“Why? They were enemies!” He stares at the older woman, who has never been his friend, and runs a hand through his hair. However, Adolphus relieves him of the burden of answering.

“She was not lying about caring for the younger children, Amina,” he yawns.

“But she didn't turn a hair at that girl– the one who got her head blown?”

“Coriolana,” supplies Daria.

“Yes but missie couldn't do nothing, then. Had to wait for time up, had to get supplies… couldn't kill thickie landmine, neither,” puts in Gaius.

“But she _can_ kill Proc; probably will, too,” sighs Cai, his eyes finding the screen again. “She'll kill as many of them as she can.”

  
  


After breakfast, the girls use a pair of collapsible metal spades to shovel the embers into the sea, while the boys clear up any other litter they have dropped since pitching camp yesterday afternoon. Once all their tracks are removed, they each arm themselves and hoist a bundle onto their backs.

“Which direction shall we take?” inquires Winnow as mildly as possible.

“Towards _them_ ,” bites out the other girl and strides out in the direction of the spot from where the hovercrafts collected the two bodies half an hour before. She can hear the other three following but she knows they aren't happy anymore. Yesterday, after they abandoned the Cornucopia to the Careers through to when that first cannon sounded, they had been almost carefree and happy. She knows they all need to be on alert but the current disquiet is more likely to dissolve their alliance early than to keep them alive. As she strides ahead, she tries to think of something they can do to restore unity, something that will tell the Careers they're not afraid. A slow grin spreads across her face at that thought. “Know any songs, Winnow?” she asks, her voice purposefully light and easy.

“Songs?” asks the other, sounding thoroughly confused.

“Yeah, I like singing,” answers Iristina, her smile deepening. “Makes the time pass more quickly.”

“There is one my father sings at the harvest,” Winnow offers.

“Let's hear it, then!” she goads and soon enough a voice as golden as her ally's eyes starts to pour forth.

“Poor, Biancabella gathering goes,  
At autumn open and summer close.  
To fetch in the harvest and fill her store,  
At autumn open and summer close.”

Predictably enough, the song is about crops and the work of District 11 but the chorus is simple enough for all of them to join in and Iristina knows the sound must carry to wherever the Careers are.

_I &G_

The day passes quietly for the four of them. They find the spot where the pair died that morning and discover the blood-pool under the tree from which the boy was suspended but, thankfully, they don't deduce the cause. However, unable to identify the Careers' tracks, they separate with each one taking a different direction. The screens show the arena from above with differently coloured, pulsating dots to mark each tribute.

“The red dots you can see mark the tributes from Districts 1, 2 and 4,” explains Templesmith's disembodied voice. “And the gold ones are the tributes from District 9, 11 and the boy from 7.” He's mildly amused that the colours reflect the dresses worn by Calidia and Iristina in the Tributes' Parade. However, his attention is occupied by the fact that the Careers are once more ensconced at the Cornucopia and that the only other dot anywhere near his girl and her allies is the bright green one which probably denotes Viatrix. The coal-coloured dot is down by the water on the opposite side of the mountain to that being combed by Iristina, Gaspar and the other two. After two hours – during which the cameras have been cutting between all of the tributes – Iristina's gang stop looking for the Careers and the gold dots start moving faster as they head for the pre-arranged meeting point on the far beach, exactly where Koralia is hiding.

  
  


Iristina comes jogging out of the forest with a machete in hand from cutting away a tangle of branches. Suddenly, something crashes onto her back, slamming her face first into the sand and sending the blade flying from her hand into the shallows. She tries to push herself up but now there are hands around her throat, so she puts her effort into trying to dislodge the attacker. She draws together all her strength, slams her left elbow into the girl's side and then rolls over, so that the other tribute is underneath her. With the combined weight of her superior bulk and the bundle on her back compressing her attacker's chest, the hands around her throat go limp and she extricates herself from the other girl. She stands up and checks that everything is still in place. However, she has underestimated Koralia's desire to kill her. While she is still checking that the girl hasn't grabbed one of her knives, the remaining tribute from District 12 launches herself at Iristina again, knocking her backward into the water. Again, she tries to roll over but the other girl has her knees on Iristina's chest, keeping her half-submerged in the water. While she's trying to catch a breath that isn't tinged with seawater, Koralia has caught up a rock and starts smashing it into the side of her head. The first hit has her digging her elbows into the silt-like sand under her but it's only after the third one that she manages to push herself up, sending the other girl sprawling backwards. She is soon on her feet again and lunging at Iristina with the bloodied rock again. In the interval, the District 9 tribute has only had time to shed her pack and so is empty-handed when Koralia attacks again. However, she is expecting the attack, so she manages to get one hand around each of the other girl's wrists. They stagger around in a parody of a dance for a few moments and then Koralia loses her footing in the wet, silty sand and she falls with Iristina on top of her. Despite the fact she is now the one half-submerged, the girl from 12 just keeps trying to smash Iristina's skull in, so the other girl can do nothing but hold onto her arms for dear life. After a few minutes, the girl's struggling weakens and, eventually, she goes still. Then, Iristina hears the cannon.

“So, she's dead,” grunts Gaspar. She releases the corpse's wrist and looks around to find that the shore is ten feet away. She can't remember how they got that far out nor does she know when her three allies arrived but they're stood in a clump around her discarded pack now. She realises that she's treading water and that her legs are aching. She turns away from the corpse and swims for the shore. Winnow greets her with a dry blanket in place of a towel and pulls her across to where Gaspar is building a fire-pit, further into the forest than last night. “How does it feel?” her district-partner asks, not looking up from his task. “Your first kill?”

“I-it's… n-not m-my… fir-first k-kill.” Her teeth are chattering and her whole body is shaking, although she can't tell whether it's from the wet clothes and chill wind or a re-action to what's just happened.

 


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own any of the Hunger Games characters (sigh), places or objects.  
> Everything you recognise from the original trilogy belongs to Suzanne Collins; anything that reminds you of the films probably belongs to the people who made those; and there are probably quotes and quirks borrowed from the myriad books I have read.

“Anything salvageable?” Gaspar demands of Renatus as soon as he joins the rest of them by the fire.

“None of the food,” the boy answers with a wry smile. “I've pegged out the hammock and the sleeping-bag might be usable tomorrow. But I can't find that tube of cut medicine.”

“I'm–“ She's cut off by a particularly violent shot of pain. “Surprised,” she finishes in a gasp. “It was– outside pocket. Ah!” Her hand flies to her left temple and then, realising the futility of exploring the injury with her finger-tips, Iristina presses her palm over the raw mince that used to be the side of her head. “I need… to lie down,” she gasps out before standing from the log on which the other girl had seated her. Once on her feet, however, she staggers and it's only Renatus' hand on her arm that stops her from falling.

“Here,” he says with a soft smile. He gets to his feet and helps her to a bank of cut turf.

“Don't go to sleep!” snaps Winnow. “Or you will die.”

“I _know_ that,” she retorts, weakly. Once her head is down against the cool sod, the irony of Winnow's concern strikes her; they are meant to want each other dead but here are Winnow and Renatus showing such tender care. She reaches out and catches the younger boy's hand. “Thanks, kiddo.” She grins at him and a shy smile spreads across his face. There might not have been a chance of Darnell being her last opponent but Renatus might and she really isn't sure she could kill him.

  
  


“Isn't that sweet? They're holding hands,” drawls Amina.

“The sponsors love it,” Adolphus informs her, coming into their private sitting-room. “I have three of them begging me to let them pay for the medicine she needs.”

“Well, let's send it,” insists Cai, almost out of his chair and pacing with nervous impatience.

“Do not worry, Caecilius, I have already authorised the gift. It should be arriving at any moment.” At that very moment on screen, Gaspar looks up and spots the silver parachute, which has gotten stuck on a branch above Iristina's head.

“Looks like you've got a fan,” he observes, dryly.

“What…are you… talking… a-bout?” she asks, sounding distressingly faint and her eyes are half-closed.

“Look!” Renatus laughs. “Someone's sent you a parachute.” She just smiles a little, although Cai is sure that she should be making some wise-crack. It worries him to see her so quiet and peaceful and accepting. “Do you want me to get it for you?” The boy is so damn cute and shy that he must fancy her. Of course, he does, everyone does, every man and woman in the Capitol. And she loves them much more than she could ever love him; he was fool to fall in love with a creature of the Games like her. The memory of his girl flirting with Haymitch after her interview is flogging him, when her present-day voice brings him up short.

“Please,” she rasps. His heart constricts at how feeble she sounds.

“Will the medicine be enough?” He finds that he's asked the question out loud.

“The medicine will close the wound and Seeder tells me they are sending Winnow four loaves of bread,” Adolphus informs him, clapping a hand on the younger man's shoulder. “Just watch, she'll get better.”

_I &G_

Renatus wakes her every couple of hours to apply more of the medicine and to force her to eat something. She revels in the feel of his fingers – cool, callused and gentle – on her abused skin as they are the only thing upon which she can concentrate apart from the pain; even sleep doesn't give her much relief. It's some time after dawn when he leans over her and she realises she can't see his face clearly. The blurring of her vision scares her more than the entire attack by the girl yesterday.

“Fever,” she stammers and tries to rise but hands press her back down. She can hear voices speaking but it would take too much effort to decode what they're saying, so she lets her attention drift and, soon enough, she's asleep again.

  
  


When she wakes next, her head is throbbing, her throat is tight and scratchy, and she can taste the residue of sleep syrup on the inside of her top lip. She opens her eyes, gingerly, but finds only darkness on the other side; there's not even the light of a fire.

“Hey,” she croaks but no-one comes. She wonders who's on guard-duty and how far away they are. “Hey.” This is a little louder but not as loud as the painful coughing fit that follows. However, either her call or her coughing roused someone because, when she opens her eyes following the fit, there's a cup of water right in front of her face. The hand that supports the back of her head as she props herself up to drink is cool like Renatus' but the fingers are longer. “Thanks, Winnow,” she whispers, after taking in as much of the water as she can manage. She is rewarded with a gleam of white teeth that, much to her relief, are not in the least blurry.

“Are you still with fever?”

“No,” she sighs, relieved.

“Good. I will leave the water here. Try to sleep more. Tomorrow, we must move.”

“Of course. Did anyone die today?”

“No. It is most surprising.”

“Right, well, we'll move at first light.” She pushes herself up on one elbow and pain cracks through her head like lightning and she screams. The scream is soon muted as Winnow claps a hand over her mouth but the pain remains. “I… need… more, um, medi– ahh… medicine.” There are tears in her eyes and she cannot imagine how she will be able to hike tomorrow but she knows they must. The long, cool fingers return with a dollop of the warm, oily paste. Winnow works it into the wound but, while Iristina can tell by the friction between the other girl's fingers and her skin that the wound is healing, it does nothing for the pain. “No. I need… ah, painkiller.”

“I think there's some morphling in the–“

“No!” she yelps. She knows that she's had one too many morphling treatments in her life and she does _not_ want to develop a habit, especially not in the arena. “Too addictive.”

“I will look to see if there is anything else.” The injured girl allows her eyes to drift shut as she waits but sleep feels about a million miles away. “Here is… acetaminophen. It says it is for pain. I know not.” Iristina takes two of the tablets and, almost half an hour later, they begin to work.

“OK. I'm going to try for more sleep,” she tells the other girl but it proves impossible. She lies awake for hours, hearing Gaspar take over guard duty. If it had been Renatus, she might say something but not to Gaspar. The reality of that statement hits her and she starts to laugh as silently as possible. She and her district-partner are supposed to be best friends and have known each other for years but, with the possibility of death hanging over her head, she would rather talk to a kid she's known for less than a fortnight. Then, she remembers the narrative they are supposed to be spinning for the sponsors. So, she gets up and joins him at the fire-pit, a little unsteady on her legs.

“Are you sure you should be up?” he asks, sounding genuinely concerned and offering her a hand with which to steady herself as she sits down. This is a good start, if they're going to convince the Capitol that they are still good friends.

“I'm a little wobbly but we need to move tomorrow, so I'd better get used to walking again,” she grins at him but he's still looking worried.

“You had me really worried, Tina,” he explains, gripping her hand. “That hole in your head looked really bad and you keep shouting out in yer sleep.”

“You know, you _are_ meant to be trying to kill me,” she reminds him with a broad grin and, this time, he grins back.

“You know… none of us thought of that as a remedy to yer wound.”

“Good thing I'm awake, then; you obviously need someone to do the plotting.”

“That we do!,” he laughs. “Any ideas where we should head tomorrow?”

“Yeah… I think we ought to scout out the Cornucopia.”

“What?!”

“Sooner or later, we're going have to meet them head-on and I want to know what we're facing when we do.” He continues to stare at her for a moment before a brilliant grin splits his face wide open.

“Yeah, the strategy-er be back.” They high-five and clasp hands.

“Any chance of getting ya to stop calling me 'Tina'?”

“Not a chance,” he laughs but there's something menacing in his eyes and she knows the respite from the Games is over.

 


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own any of the Hunger Games characters (sigh), places or objects.  
> Everything you recognise from the original trilogy belongs to Suzanne Collins; anything that reminds you of the films probably belongs to the people who made those; and there are probably quotes and quirks borrowed from the myriad books I have read.

When he rolls into bed at 3am that morning, Cai sets an alarm and actually forces himself out of bed when it sounds at six. However, he still finds the Barvens are at the screens before him.  
“Did you two sleep?” he rasps and both heads shake without the eyes leaving the image of the four allies packing up camp.  
“She doesn't look good,” moans Daria and Cai notices her hand is encased in her husband's powerful grip.  
“We're still a long way off the final eight,” he reminds them, uncertain whether he is still drunk or only slightly hung-over. “There's eleven of them still.”  
“You heard Ares and Gaspar,” Adolphus answers, his voice slow and deliberate. “They are going to face the Career Pack–“  
“They're going to scout!” Cai barks back at the older man. “She wouldn't be so stupid as to fight them. Not in her condition!”  
“So… why are you out of bed five hours early?” Daria asks, turning a sympathetic smile on him.  
“Everybody ready?” asks Iristina's voice from the TV. The cameras switch to show the Careers' camp at the Cornucopia, where all of them are asleep. “Then, let's go!” As on Day 2, the cameras track the progress of the four allies from above – a tight square of four gold dots taking the route of least resistance up to the summit. The five red dots remain stationary (soundly asleep in the two tents pitched outside the Cornucopia) and so does the electric-blue one that indicates where the girl from District 3 is camped on the beach to the east of Ares' gang. However, Renatus' district-partner is up and moving around a stream, presumably filling her water bottle and maybe catching some fish. For over an hour, they show nothing but this For over an hour, they show nothing but this aerial map with its coloured pin-pricks and Cai gets increasingly edgy. OK, so he was restless to begin with but, by the time, they switch to a panorama of the mountain's summit, he is actually pacing.  
“How long have you three been here?” asks Amina's coldly amused voice from behind him as the screen fills with a shot of Viatrix swinging her rucksack onto her back.  
“They've not been to bed and I got here at six,” he snaps at her, turning to pace the other direction again. The girl from 3 is still asleep, curled into a ball in what looks like an over-sized rabbit warren. Finally, Ares and her three allies appear on screen and he stops pacing to watch. They're all grinning, except for Gaspar, who is looking like a worse friend every day. Ares pulls down a handful of nuts, cracks them open and pelts Renatus and Gaspar with the shells, while passing the fruit to Winnow. The younger boy giggles and pulls down a reedy branch with feathery leaves at one end and proceeds to tickle Ares with it. They look like the could be on a school trip. They do not look like hardened killers preparing to murder the opposition in their sleep.

“Will you cut it out,” hisses Gaspar, his face contorted in disgust. “We're almost there!” She rolls her eyes and Renatus has to clamp a hand over his mouth to stop any more laughter escaping but they do sober up. About 15 minutes from the summit, by her estimation, they stop and portion out nuts, bread and fish cooked last night.  
“OK,” she begins, once they're all replete with food and water. “I think we need to split into two teams.”  
“Girls and boys,” grins Renatus, all boyish charm and her heart thuds for another boy, a boy five years dead, a child of the streets like her.  
“No. You're coming with me, boyo,” she orders with a broad grin. “And, Winnow, you go with Gaspar.” She leaves the why – to ensure he doesn't stab them in the back – unsaid and, instead, launches into the what and how. “So, my little idea is that we separate here, each team go five minutes in their direction, then one creeps up to the very edge and the other stands guard, real close. OK?” Winnow and Renatus nod but Gaspar is frowning.  
“Who do the creeping and who the looking?” She darts a look at the other girl, who takes the hint as seamlessly as though they have been sharing schemes and mollifying this wannabe man for years.  
“You look and I will guard,” Winnow asserts, already reaching for her spear.  
“And what be we looking fer?” growls Gaspar.  
“I told you last night.” She rolls her eyes. “We need to know what we're facing before we fight them.”  
“And what if the guard spots us?”  
“Then we run, Gazzer!” she instructs, deliberately using his despised childhood nickname and forcing a smile to cover her clenched jaw.  
“Fine,” he responds with his own crocodile grin and she is more glad than ever that Winnow is the one going with him and he's not the one watching her own back.

This is not good. This fictional friendship is disintegrating, fast, leaving their real enmity on display. She still looks good. In fact, she looks better for having made friends with her allies, while he spent the last day sulking, not communicating with the other two and not tending to her. He's acting increasingly like a lone wolf tribute and Cai cannot blame his girl for wanting Gaspar away from her.  
“They look to be fixing to kill each other afore they be the final two,” muses Gaius and the younger man has got to admit he's right. He's worried for her, he always knew Gaspar would be her most dangerous adversary.  
“Don't be crazy, Gaius,” titters Amina. “The boy might not be pretending to like her anymore but he won't kill her. He knows what it would do to the sponsors and even she isn't that stupid.” Cai finds himself clutching a flower vase, rather like Ares clutched that metal plate after the training scores were announced. He wishes that Amina would keep her venomous, spiteful tongue caged.

When she pokes her forehead and eyes above the stone ridge, the first thing Iristina sees is Gaspar's curly head. Wait! She shouldn't be able to see him because, if she can see him, then–  
“We've got a bleeder, Proc!” sings out a girl's voice and, instead of turning and running for the shore, the idiot stands up and throws a rock at the sentry. In that moment, she feels the desire to kill so keenly that it clouds her vision and that scares her. Somehow, she manages to send her first knife into Glaucus' butt, instead of Gaspar's face. Then, however, the entire Career Pack are on their feet, weapons in hand, and they are separating to attack both groups. She turns and yells at Renatus:  
“They're coming!” The boys nods, his face going as grim as it had after he killed Canus, and he hoists the shafts of his axes a little more securely into his hands. She notices this, this small movement, as she slides down the dirt bank at what feels like a snail's pace. It's strange, since the moment her knife stuck in the boy's behind, the world seems to have slowed down. Then, she's rising – ungracefully – to her feet beside Renatus and the girls from Districts 2 and 4 are appearing on the ridge above them as she and her allies loomed above the Career Pack on Day 1. The younger of the pair is, stereotypically, armed with a trident – which is almost twice as tall as she is – and a gutting knife. The other one is even less well-equipped with a blow-gun in hand and a sickle tucked into her belt. To do their training credit, neither pauses upon seeing their competition. One shoots a dart, which catches in Renatus' thick hair, and the other throws her knife, which would have caught Iristina's throwing-arm if she hadn't released her own knife a split second before. The knife sticks in Fishing Girl's inside thigh, just above the knee and she crumples, clutching at the area around the protuberance, which proves to be the worst thing she can do at that point. She tumbles forward down the dirt bank, lands at their feet and Renatus brings an axe down on her opposite calf with the same deadly precision with which he had removed Canus' head. The fallen Career screams and crawls away from them as well as she is able with one and a half legs. The girl from 2 distracts them from following her ally by rushing at them with her sickle raised and a battle-cry that will, undoubtedly, bring the other three Careers down on them, unless Gaspar and Winnow have them fully occupied. Iristina pulls the machete from her back sheath but it's the spike on the boy's unused axe that enters their attacker's body just below the ribs. She gasps and they can hear a sucking sound, so she won't last long without medicine.  
“Let's go!” squeaks the boy beside her and she can see the fear in his eyes.  
“OK,” she says with a re-assuring smile before swiping the dart out of his hair. Then he screams and staggers into her arms. The girl at their feet has cut his hamstring. “Let's get you out of here, baby.” She's forcing a grin and so is he as she half-carries him away.  
I&G  
“It could be much'n worse, Caecilius,” Gaius points out but it doesn't re-assure him much as he watches the two pairs limp away in split-screen. The editor then flips through the other tributes in turn. They start with the Capitol's darling, Tadia, staunching the gaping hole under her ribs. She is soon joined by Proc, who sweeps her up in his arms and carries her back to their camp. Next, it's little Bess with her two bloodied legs hiding at the base of a tree who fills the screen. Then, Capitol favourite, Calidia, and her hunting-buddy, Glaucus, who are trying to track the retreating gang members. Next, manic little Viatrix is shown swarming from one tree to the next, desperate to escape the approaching Careers. Finally, there is owlish Attie, the malnourished brainiac from District 3, who has finally woken up. She crawls out of her burrow and sets about assembling her breakfast, blissfully unaware of the non-lethal carnage that has taken place around the Cornucopia.  
“I bet–“ Daria begins but cuts herself as the camera returns to Tadia with Proc, who is snatching a parachute out of the clear sky. “Yeah… that.”  
“Should we do anything about getting medicine for the allies?” asks Amina with a sneer of distaste. Adolphus and Cai exchange a look. This is an unprecedented situation for them.

“What were you thinking?” Iristina launches herself at Gaspar as soon as she sees him and knocks him to the ground. “Were you thinking?!” Even through her fury, she notices that Winnow is also limping and holding her ribs but, of course, Gaspar hadn't been assisting her. “I said, run! You dumb, deaf pillock! You should have bloody ran!” He throws her off and comes up into a snarling crouch like a wild-cat. Then, someone squeaks behind her and they all refocus their attention on the girl from 3 who has just appeared. Three of them raise weapons, although she can see the effort it costs Renatus, and the intruder sprints for the cover of the woods. “Why don't you set a fire?” she spits at him before going to help the younger boy to sit on a boulder. “OK, stay put, baby.” She smiles at him and sweeps her hand through his hair in the same way she had with Darnell in the elevator. “I'm gonna go help Winnow before she falls over and then I'll be right back, OK?” He nods and gives her an affectionate smile as she turns to the other girl, who is looking even more unsteady than Iristina felt in the early hours of that morning. She runs over and, as soon as her arm is around the younger girl's waist, Winnow collapses onto her. “What did they get you with?”  
“He… mace… ribs. She… whip… right leg.” Iristina looks down and sees a ring of square cuts around her ally's right knee. The fact that the cuts seem to be deeper on the soft underside accounts for Winnow's limp.  
“OK. It's OK. I'll give you a shot of morphling and there'll be a parachute along at any minute and it'll be OK.” Iristina keeps up this litany of mindless re-assurance as she effectively carries the younger, taller girl over to a chair-like rock formation. She knows she should be killing these people – that is what she said to Gaspar last night, after all – but there are still five Careers out there. Yes, two of them might be mortally wounded but she does not want to go up against three vengeful, trained tributes with only Gaspar at her side, especially considering his current attitude. She digs through their packs until she comes up with the morphling and bandages, while her district-partner builds a fire. As Gaspar wades further and further away in an attempt to catch fish, she gives Winnow a shot of the powerful drug and cleans the two leg wounds. She's rubbing a salve that claims to knit torn skin back together into the second of these wounds, when Gaspar returns with his catch. He retrieves the parachute from a nearby tree, while she is bandaging the other girl's knee. She moves aside, turning her attention to the younger boy's long but shallow cut, so that he can hand the package to Winnow without her and her fellow-volunteer making contact. She and Gaspar continue to dance around each other as she plays the role of nurse and he that of cook. About an hour later, the fire has died down sufficiently for him to cook the fish and drop-scones made of flour, powdered milk and salt water.  
“Here,” he grunts, thrusting a plate into her hands. She looks at her share and those of the two invalids and frowns.  
“We should give them more, they need to keep their strength up.”  
“So do you!” he screams at her. “Or have you forgotten you were dying yesterday?!” Her frown deepens. Why is he acting like this? He doesn't like her – in fact, he hates her – and he just put all their lives in jeopardy. No, Gaspar Barjon is one man she can't figure out.  
“Fine, then!” she flings at him in the same way she would a knife, in the way she wants to throw a knife. “Cook three more fish.” His face contorts into a gargoyle mask but he does it and the colour does seem to be coming back into Renatus' cheeks. She's wondering if the battle will be enough to keep the Gamemakers happy or if they need to move off the beach, when she hears the cannon.  
“Bet that's Bess,” rasps the younger boy.  
“Bess?” she frowns at him.  
“Peg-leg,” he grins back, weakly, and she laughs for both of them.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own any of the Hunger Games characters (sigh), places or objects.  
> Everything you recognise from the original trilogy belongs to Suzanne Collins; anything that reminds you of the films probably belongs to the people who made those; and there are probably quotes and quirks borrowed from the myriad books I have read.

Cai can't help a twinge of pleasure and pride at how much care she's showing towards the injured pair. He feels an equally uncontainable burst of loathing for Gaspar. Sure, the damage done to the Careers had been much worse, especially after he had talked Iristina's top sponsor into contributing towards Seeder's fund for Winnow's medicine. However, the whole thing was a fiasco and if one of _his_ allies had done that, he wouldn't have just shoved them into sand. he wouldn't have just shoved them into the ground. Yes, Gaspar should be glad it isn't Cai with whom he's sharing the arena. Indeed, he wouldn't want to put money on how long the boy would survive, if he's the one to make it out of the arena, not Iristina.

  
  


“I'll take the first watch,” Gaspar growls at her like it's an insult. Maybe he means it as one, she reflects, but she doesn't have the energy to care. She has just settled the two walking wounded in one of the tents he pitched and had been hoping for a quiet moment. Part of her desperately wants to kill him – has done for years – but she knows she needs him just as much as Winnow and Renatus, if they are going to defeat the Career Pack. It's loathsome to admit but, at the moment, he's their best defence. However, she still hates his attitude and wishes she could slit his throat here and now.

“If you want,” she gripes in response. “I won't be sleeping either way. I'm gonna stay up and look after them two.”

“Why?” he shoots back with a sneer. “They wouldn't–“

“Yes… They _did_ ,” she roars back at him, remembering only half-way through the second word that they didn't want give away their location, that they were no longer an invincible force.

“Say what you _mean_ , Tina!”

“Come _on_ , Gazzer! I'm your best friend, I was 'dying'” – she sketches air-quotes as she says it – “and you spent all day sniping at Winnow and Renatus?” Her point is to remind him how it looks to the sponsors, not to chastise him for a lack of fictional care. She, personally, couldn't care less if he nursed her when she was sick and injured – in fact, the idea of his hands on her when she's vulnerable makes her skin crawl – but the sponsors do.

“Fine! You take the first watch. I can't take anymore of your self-righteous sermonising.” He disappears into the second tent and leaves her sitting alone on a tree-stump, the bitter wind blowing through her.

  
  


“And, there, we – and the tributes – see Bess Lipscomb, who places 14th but was 5th in the betting until her debilitating injury this morning,” explains Templesmith, trying to sound enthusiastic rather than exhausted.

“As the tributes go to bed,” intones Flickerman's purring voice, while the screen splits in four to show the various camps. “Let's watch that death again.” The screen is once again filled with the huddled figure, trying to hide in the roots of a massive tree, in a pool of blood under the midday sun.

“It's horrible,” murmurs Daria. “The way they raced to help Tadia and no-one did anything for her.”

“That's the Games, my dear,” points out Amina. “I mean, with half her leg missing, she had no chance of winning.”

“Yes… that Renatus lad… he be very good with thicky axe,” muses Gaius as the camera pulls back to show the dead girl and her killer. “Our girl better be a-watching her back.” The editors have imposed a black circle around the assailant, who had concealed herself well within the foliage in spite of Bess' inability to run or fight. The tribute's stature makes it very clear that the assailant is Viatrix, Renatus' district-partner. “He should never'n allowed her ta get that there bow.” The girl, indeed, proves to be deadly with the bow and arrows she took from the Cornucopia. On the screen, she notches and draws the arrow smoothly and it thuds into her victim's neck. It cleanly severs the spinal chord – as they show in the second re-run where Bess is shown as an image of magnetic resonance – and kills her instantly.

“Those other tributes better watch out,” chuckles Templesmith. “That little girl is armed and dangerous. Now, let's review how the betting stands.”

_I &G_

She doesn't wake Gaspar. She watches the whole night, alone. It's not difficult; the tents are well-camouflaged, there's no fire (not even a banked up one) and no-one seems to be moving in their part of the island. She wakes the patients at what should be the end of each watch and makes them drink water, gives Winnow her medicine and forces painkillers on Renatus.

“I thought this was _my_ job,” he grins at her as she supports his head to tip water down his throat.

“Not tonight, it's not,” she smiles back at him.

“Are you taking something for your pain?” queries Winnow.

“I'm fine,” she protests, lightly. They both force themselves up and stare at her.

“This time yesterday, you couldn't _walk_ ,” Renatus reminds her with a stern look. “I like the way you're treating me like a kid but I just got a cut to the leg. She almost smashed your skull in.” She rolls her eyes at the two hard stares facing her but, grudgingly, swallows down two of the painkiller tablets.

“There. You happy?” They smirk at her and she rolls her eyes. “Go to sleep. It'll be dawn in a couple of hours.”

“Have _you_ been to sleep?” persists Winnow, her eyes full of concern but glazed.

“It's fine. I couldn't sleep, I was worrying about you two.” Now, it's Renatus' turn to roll his eyes; Winnow would probably have joined him but her eyes are once again shut.

“And what about Gaspar?” She gives him a meaningful look and the boy sighs. “Are you going to kill him?” he whispers, not wanting the question to carry to the neighbouring tent.

“Can't afford to kill any of you yet,” she deflects with a grin. “We've still got Careers to kill.” They high-five and she wriggles back out of the tent.

“It's not exactly _guard_ duty, if you're not out here to see an attack coming,” her district-partner says from behind her. She swivels, still crouching, and sees that he is weapon-less. More, he's standing there with his hands in his pockets, looking out to sea.

“What do you want, Gaspar?” she asks, feeling the whole weariness of the sleepless night and the years of constant struggle to stay alive.

“A straight answer to the boy's question?” he suggests, turning those piercing grey eyes on her.

“His name is Renatus,” she rebukes as she gets to her feet. “And I thought that was the general idea… _your_ idea?”

“So why didn't you just say that?”

“Maybe, because, at the moment, I couldn't admit _that_ without wanting to act on it. Immediately,” she snarls at him. To her surprise, his face cracks into a broad grin.

“Get some sleep, Ares. I'll take the last watch.” She sighs and allows a reluctant smile to break through the exhaustion; that is, until she catches the glint in his eye. So, she gets into the tent, crawls into the sleeping-bag he had so recently vacated but doesn't zip it up or even let herself drift towards sleep. She doesn't have to wait long. Less than an hour after she left him, he pushes the tent-flap aside and launches himself at her, his hands unerringly finding her throat. She jams her knife into his left bicep and his hands' compulsive release gives her enough of an opening to roll the pair of them over. She ends up straddling his waist, some of the sleeping-bag still between them, with the bloodied knife dripping onto the spot where his heart should be.

“ _What_ did I tell you on the train?” she sighs, sounding bored.

“That you be a better fighter'n me,” he growls, through gritted teeth.

“Just needed ta test the theory, did ya?” she queries, raising an eyebrow. “Again?”

“Get off me, you bitch!” he snarls and she sneers back.

“I think you need another reminder.” She carefully inserts the tip of the knife into the corner of his eye and rips it away towards his ear before his hand catches her wrist. He bellows in pain. “Get outta here! Go get yerself cleaned up.” She rolls off of him, pulling the sleeping-bag after her and he scrambles out. She still can't let herself go to sleep but she does allow her body to drift into a restorative torpor.

  
  


“What ever happened to his _eye_?!” gasps Daria, when the screen at the end of their dining-room finally shows Ares and her gang.

“He didn't have that last night,” whispers Amina.

“And there's something wrong with his arm,” observes Adolphus. The four tributes are sat around a smoky pile of embers, eating the last of their food.

“We'll need to go foraging today,” his girl comments, taking a nonchalant swallow of water. Renatus looks at each of the District 9 tributes in turn before answering and, when his eyes light on Gaspar, Cai spots a slight smirk twitching his lips upward.

“I think the other boy might have done it,” he comments.

“That sounds like a plan,” Renatus concurs, the smirk blossoming into a grin. “But what's Gaspar gonna do? It's not like he can _look_ for plants or animals.” The two girls each bite their lip to keep from laughing and Gaspar glares at the younger boy, although it is much less effective with a padded bandage over one eye.

“According to Ares, she is the one responsible for Gaspar Barjon's new injury,” Templesmith's voice-over explains as the tributes' conversation carries on, silent to the audience. Then, the camera shot changes to one of the two presenters behind their desk. “So, both alliances are heading into the forest. Do you think we can expect another battle, Caesar?”

“I don't know, Claudius,” laughs the old hack. “Tadia Incantatores has been left at base-camp and the other alliance aren't looking for a fight. And they were the ones to initiate things yesterday.”

“But there _will_ be another death, don't you think?” grins Templesmith.

“Oh, yes! Maybe our favourite forester will catch someone else with an arrow. Let's see how she's getting on…”

_I &G_

They have packed up camp, all taken a fresh dose of painkillers and are ready to start searching for food by the fourth hour after dawn. Gaspar carries the lightest pack as the plan is for him to carry the gathered food. Iristina and Renatus have a brief fight over who will carry the heaviest one, which she wins by dint of superior age and having no wounds to any load-bearing portion of her body.

“Let us begin at a brook,” suggests Winnow and the others consent, so they begin their trek latitudinally around the beach. After 20 minutes, they hit the mouth of a swift-flowing stream with cliff-like banks.

“Let's follow it up. It might flatten out higher up,” Renatus points out.

“Who put you in charge, dip-shit?” snarls Gaspar, shoving the younger boy.

“Do you wanna keep those hands?” Renatus retorts, the pain making his eyes water. “Well, then, keep them off me or– or I'll cut them off.” He raises his axe, trying to seem menacing but, knocked onto the back foot and tears filling his eyes, he looks nothing more than a little boy in a man's world.

“Well, Adolphus _did_ put me in charge and I say we're going to follow this sodding stream until we actually have a chance of getting fish out of it. And, unless you want me to make your eyes match again, I'd move that butt of yours, Gazzer.” He looks ready to launch himself at her again but Winnow's spear appears between them to block his way. Iristina grins at her disgruntled district-partner and turns to lead the way up the riverbank.

  
  


“I thought they were best friends,” whines Galene, sipping on her violet virgin cocktail.

“They were,” Cai assures her, soothingly. “Before the arena. But… Well, _you've_ seen the way he's been treating her. Don't tell me _you'd_ let a friend of yours treat _you_ that way?”

“No,” she admits, uncertainly. “Well… maybe if he was as handsome as _Gaspar_.” He re-evaluates. He had thought this meeting was about Ares – Galene is well-known for fancying female victors, in every sense – but it seems that Gaspar's auburn hair and grey eyes, which match her own current look, has turned the septuagenarian's head.

“Well,” he begins, turning up the charm and sliding closer to her on the vinyl sofa. “You could always send him some medicine and then he could remove that _horrible_ bandage. And, maybe, they'd even be friendlier to each other.” He just hopes they'll have a friendly moment he can reward with the medicine.

“Oh, yes!” she gasps and claps her hands like a pleased child. “How clever. I would never have thought of that.”

“I'm not just a pretty face, you know?” he says and tips the repulsive old crone a broad wink. How he hates this job.

  
  


“OK!” laughs Gaspar as Renatus and Iristina dump another netful of fish at his feet. “I think that's enough.” The sun is an hour past its zenith and the older boy has been loosening up, sitting on a warm rock to gut the fish.

“Yes. I am believing we will be unable to carry all of this,” adds Winnow with her own, sweeter smile.

“Alright,” grins the other girl.

“I'm gonna go root around for… roots.” Renatus shrugs and laughs at himself before turning for the tree-line.

“Do you want me to build the fire or should I take over here?” she asks Gaspar, offering her own conversational olive-branch.

“You get the fire. We don't want it to smoke and I'm too wet. See?” He goes after her with his gooey fingers and she gives a shriek of laughter and stumbles backwards, away from him. It doesn't take her many steps to realise he's chasing her towards the stream. The banks might not be as steep here as where they first found it but, if she fell into the water, she might still break her leg. So much for rebuilding their partnership.

“Hey! What's that?!” she shrieks, spotting a flash of silver in a tree above Winnow's head.

“Very good,” he drawls at her. “But you won't–“

“It's a parachute!” calls the other girl and Gaspar spins around. He sprints back to where they started, while she collapses against a broken tree-stump. Her district-partner gives a 'whoop' and she looks up to see him clawing the bandage away from his damaged eye. The gel he scoops out of the pot is a dark grey and he slathers it onto the ragged cut she made that morning. He puts his head back, closed eyes to the sun, and gives a deep groan of contentment. The sound has her thoughts flying to a hundred nights with Krill and she shivers. She shudders again at the thought that the pot of medicine was sent as a reward for their friendly behaviour, friendly behaviour that she suspects was aimed at getting her leg broken.

 _BOOM!_ It's a cannon and, at once, she's running for the forest. She forces herself not to scream his name, not to give away their location, but she runs hell for leather in the direction that Renatus took off. She pulls out two throwing blades as she runs and almost stabs him when he barrels into her, pulling her into a tight hug.

“Thank the gods, thank the gods, thank the…” he keeps murmuring into her hair, over and over. “And the others?” he asks, finally drawing back from her.

“They're fine. We're all fine,” she croaks. To cover her upset, she drops to her haunches to collect the knives she dropped. “Come on. Let's get back to the others.” They walk side by side in silence and find the other two waiting for them.

“Good,” grunts Gaspar and then turns back to gutting the fish. Winnow comes forward with another parachute in her hands.

“I think this is belonging to you,” she says and hands it to Renatus. Inside, there is a large pale loaf of bread.

“Yes, it's from my district!” he grins. “Should keep us going a while, don't ya think, Ares?” The boy knocks her shoulder and grins at her. In that moment, she realises that they are more than just allies; in fact, she fears that, in his mind, they are something more than friends.

 


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own any of the Hunger Games characters (sigh), places or objects.  
> Everything you recognise from the original trilogy belongs to Suzanne Collins; anything that reminds you of the films probably belongs to the people who made those; and there are probably quotes and quirks borrowed from the myriad books I have read.

Cai watches in split screen as Calidia cleans her dagger and the girl from District 3 is carried away by a hovercraft. They're down to nine – the girl from 7 and the two alliances. He asks himself, without really wondering, how much longer the alliances can last. They're showing the overhead map again and he's mildly reassured to see that the cluster of gold dots are on the opposite side of the mountain to the three active red dots. He's less pleased by the fact that the green dot seems to be moving in the direction of his girl.

“So… nine tributes left,” purrs Caesar Flickerman, portentously. “Just one away from the all important final eight.”

“Yes,” nods Templesmith. “And I'm sure Districts 7 and 9 must be delighted.”

“I know, _I'm_ excited. Ares promised us that both the tributes from District 9 would make it to Day 2 and here we are on Day 5 and they're both still alive!”

“Yes, and I think it's been at least ten years since both of the District 7 tributes survived this long.”

“You'd think they'd had a bloody hand in keeping the blighters alive, wouldn't ya?” snarls Haymitch, sinking into the seat beside him. This surprises Cai as the other man has a reputation for only watching until both of his tributes are dead. At least, he's not sober; that would _really_ worry Cai. “I like your girl. Wonder why she cut your boy, though.”

“He probably tried to kill her,” he sighs and runs a hand through his shaggy hair.

“Why'd he do that?”

“Because they hate each other.”

“I thought–“ Haymitch turns his chair so that he can look Cai full in the face. “Wow! That's some story! Wondered why they've been nettling each other the whole time but it make sense if they hate each others' guts. You think they'll make it to the end without killing each other?”

“I have _no_ idea.”

_I &G_

Once they've cooked the fish, they pack up without eating anything as Winnow is certain she can hear movement in the trees.

“Must be Viatrix,” Iristina mutters to her district-partner, falling into step beside him. If the mentors want them to act friendly, she'll do her best. Anyway, she doesn't want to encourage Renatus' puppy love and she definitely doesn't want to leave the two boys together. Gaspar, the antithesis of a team-player, just grunts and speeds up. She matches her stride to his and tries again: “If it were the Careers, they'd not be hiding from us and I think it be more like that they'd catch up to poor frightened girl from 3 as'n Viatrix.” He hoists his pack more securely on his shoulder and then bends down abruptly, leaving her to walk past him. Exasperated, she lets herself walk away and, soon enough, Renatus is at her side. He walks quietly for a while but then his fingers brush her hand and she knows that he's trying to take hold of it but she does _not_ know how to respond. They are in the middle of the Hunger Games and they can't both make it out alive, so it can do no good to encourage him, except to possibly make him happier. The question is: can it do any harm? They're already allies, so it's unlikely to infuriate sponsors and might even play on their sentimentality; Gaspar won't care, he couldn't care less who she does and it's not like their narrative has a romantic element; Winnow isn't interested in the boy but she might think that Iristina is manipulating or humouring him, although she's hardly proven herself likely to do that; so, that only leaves Caesar and Cai so, that only leaves Caesar and Cai; and herself. If they see her holding hands or even kissing this boy, will they assume she was playing them and stop helping her? Well, she has no way of knowing if Caesar has been helping her and Adolphus won't let Cai stop acting like a mentor. As long as she can come up with a way of selling it to Caesar Flickerman, she might as well do it. So what if it might haunt her if she makes it out of the arena alive? It's too late to start worrying about the impact her immoral actions will have upon herself. She smiles slightly, keeping her eyes fixed on the way ahead and slips her hand into that of the boy beside her.

  
  


The cameras are following the Career tributes as they attempt to catch Viatrix. She's leading them a merry dance all around the crown of the mountain, safely away from Ares and her allies. Cai is watching all this from the massive, silk-sheeted bed of his latest client. She's draped across his chest, trying to imprint herself on him as something more than one of a thousand Capitol floozies he's had. They always try it and it never works; at this moment, lying naked in her bed and drinking her champagne, he's more interested in the screen, hoping for a glimpse of his girl.

“So, who do you think will win?” simpers the ingénue, smiling up at him.

“Why, one of my two, of course,” he smirks at her, turning up the charm again. After all, anyone who can afford to rent a victor has the money to sponsor a tribute.

“Really?” Her smoky blue eyes are impossibly wide, he notices. “I put my money on Proc. Now, _he's_ what a victor looks like… like you.” He can't even find it in himself to pretend to be flattered.

“That's not what I looked like when I won,” he tells her, shortly. “I need to jump in your shower before I go.” He starts to roll her off him and she giggles as though it's a game.

“I'll join you!”

“You paid for an hour, not an afternoon,” he points out with a sneer. Her jaw drops and she stares at him.

“I thought… thought we were having fun,” she whimpers.

“Frankly, madam, I've had more fun with women _thrice_ your age. You're just another dime a dozen débutante who thinks it'll be fun to have her first time with a victor. It is rather less than tiresome for _us_.” Once he's safely in the bathroom, he shakes his head violently; he hates it when he sounds like he's channelling Adolphus.

  
  


They keep moving all day, not heading anywhere in particular but reluctant to stay still now there are so few tributes left. Eventually, as darkness falls, they stop and pitch the tents under overhanging branches.

“Anyone wanna come down to the beach with me and see who died today?” she offers, straightening from laying out one pair of sleeping-bags.

“I will!” grins Renatus, jumping up from where he's been repairing the fishing net. Winnow grins and gives the older girl a quick shake of her head.

“You two go ahead,” grunts Gaspar, who is bent over the fire-pit and struggling to get the green wood to catch.

“Come on,” Iristina chuckles at the younger boy and jerks her head towards the shore. He runs over to her, catches her wrist and drags her to the beach. She has to fight to keep her laughter quiet, although they are both armed and could probably take anyone who tried to attack. Once they're on the beach, Renatus spins her around and then tugs on her wrist so that she falls against his chest. She lets out a gusty laugh, surprised by his boyish assertiveness, and looks up at him, expecting him to kiss her. Instead, he hesitates and bats his eyelashes at her.

“I've never kissed a girl before,” he whispers and and looks up at him, expecting him to kiss her. Instead, he hesitates and bats his eyelashes at her.

“I've never kissed a girl before,” he whispers and her heart breaks for him, killing her elation. If this was anyone else, someone who could give her an edge, she'd make some quip but this is just a little, lost boy and she's not really so cold-hearted as to add insult to uncertainty. She slides her hands up his chest, so her arms encircle his neck, and then pulls him down to kiss him, slow and tender. “Wow,” he gasps and smiles at her. “Wasn't that magical?” When she doesn't agree at once, he frowns and pulls away. “Have you kissed someone before?”

“Yes, Renatus,” she sighs, feeling as though she's humouring a child. “I have kissed other people.”

“Oh… well, you're beautiful,” he shrugs. “I bet lots of people want to kiss you. Have you kissed lots of people?” Now, she knows, is not the time to tell the whole truth. Unless there's in-fighting among the Careers, they are probably being featured on every screen in Panem and, even if they aren't, if she wins, this will undoubtedly make the highlights cut. Part of her wishes she had just told him that it was magical for her, too.

“Rena,” she sighs, finally voicing the nickname she's been using in her head for a week now. “I'm three years older than you. So, yeah, I've kissed other people. It's normal.” He still doesn't look happy, so she goes to him and slips her arms around her waist. “I'm sorry that you haven't kissed lots of people but you can kiss this person, _lots_ , OK?” He raises his head and grins shyly at her.

“So, you liked it?”

“Yeah, baby, I did,” she whispers and brushes the hair out of his eyes. They stay wrapped in each other's arms until the anthem sounds. Then, they turn to look up into the sky and the dead tribute has a number 3 beside her picture, which tells Iristina that they really have reached the final stage of the Games.

 


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own any of the Hunger Games characters (sigh), places or objects.  
> Everything you recognise from the original trilogy belongs to Suzanne Collins; anything that reminds you of the films probably belongs to the people who made those; and there are probably quotes and quirks borrowed from the myriad books I have read.

Gaspar wakes her by sliding into the other sleeping-bag at dawn.

“Your boyfriend just took over.” She can't see his expression in the gloom of the tent but it doesn't sound like he's teasing her.

“He's not my boyfriend,” she sighs, weary despite the six hours of sleep she's had since her watch ended.

“He certainly thinks so,” the boy tells her, sounding like he couldn't care less. She just hopes that the Gamemakers have a camera or microphone nearby; this is her chance to sell the puppy love story to Caesar, if he can hear her.

“Look, he wanted to kiss a girl and, I mean, there isn't that much left of our lives. So, I figured, why not? Give him a bit of happiness.” It's more honesty than she would normally allow Gaspar but it's not for him.

“'Cept, o'course, you _do_ 'ave the rest of yer life left,” he answers, sounding truculent.

“Only if we kill the Careers and Viatrix,” she sighs, her worries about the coming days flooding back into her.

“And what if we do? What will ya do about Renatus?”

“I don't know.” She drags a roughened hand over her face, causing an audible rasping sound.

“But how _could_ you live in the Capitol without your boyfriend, though?”

“I left a boyfriend in the Capitol.”

“Right, of course.” He thinks she means Cai – and maybe she does, in spirit – but, hopefully, Caesar will hear it and believe she means him. “Right, well, I'm gonna get some sleep as I'm sure me general is gonna have us marching all day again today.” She freezes; of course, Adolphus wanted her to show leadership but she never meant to come across as militant. Then, she remembers who's saying it and decides to ignore the snub.

“Well, I'll get up and leave you to it,” she says, roughly. She forces her way out into the dawn light and catches The deep flame-orange light turns her, Renatus and the tents into an assortment of tigers. She's seen dawn in the arena before but, then, it crept up on her slowly and they were nearer the beach, so her attention had been taken by the contrast of the orange light and the gun-metal water.

“You shouldn't be up!” fusses Renatus, hurrying over with a thermal jacket but she laughs and pushes him away. As he frowns, obviously annoyed, she begins to spin on the spot with her arms out and her face turned up to catch as much of the light as possible on her bare skin.

“Have you ever seen light like this?” she laughs, continuing to spin. The light and the muggy air make her feel like she's drowning in exotic fur. It's only then that she realises that this is the hottest morning she can remember in her Games so far. She stops spinning and staggers but Renatus is there to catch her. She forces herself to be polite and smile up at him, while her mind runs over the last five days to judge the temperature variation. Apart from the day when she was ill, when she has no way of telling what the ambient temperature was like as her own was all over the place, she realises that each day has been hotter than the one before. “Oh… no. _Please_ , no.”

“What is it?” he asks, using his thumb to swipe a stray chestnut lock from her sweaty forehead.

“I think they're messing with the atmospheric controls. We need to load up on water today.”

“OK,” he says, giving a one-shouldered shrug. She looks into his eyes and sees utter incomprehension; she forgets sometimes that most people have never had to survive on the streets in 45-degree heat. It's probably only half that now but then it's dawn and they're only on Day 6.

“I'm going to wake Winnow, get started on packing up. We can let Gaspar sleep for now, he needs it. Keep keeping watch. We'll be leaving as soon as possible.” She's distracted, worried, and she knows there's something she's forgetting, some step in the dance, but she's too frantic to stop and remember, so she leaves Renatus standing there, looking crest-fallen.

  
  


“Why didn't she kiss the boy?” complains Adolphus, leaning back against the headboard.

“What?” murmurs Daria from her recumbent position beneath sheet, duvet and quilt. He smirks down at his wife and kisses her forehead.

“Iristina has just worked out that the Gamemakers are increasing the temperature each day.”

“She did?” gasps Daria, pushing herself up onto one elbow. “Well, good for her. Maybe they won't die of thirst. Have the other team worked it out yet?” As if in answer to her question, the screen fills with a panoramic shot of the mountain's summit. Nothing is moving but the Careers do have a guard posted for the first time. “Reckon they're scared now that our four aren't leaving a fire smoking all night?” He nods, lack of sleep making him indolent. “So, are they going to stock up on water? And fruit.” He nods again, letting his eyes drift half-shut.

“She was going to–“ He's cut off by a large yawn. “Pack up camp.”

“Things are going very quick. Tributes, I mean,” she frowns. “We're only at the very beginning of Day 6 and they're already down to nine.” He places his hand on her thigh and slides it down to cup her knee.

“If these two cannot win, I do not know who can. They are the best I have ever seen come out of District 9.”

“Hey!” she protests, rolling over to lie half on top of him. “Is she better than me?” She grazes her finger-nails through his chest-hair. “Is he better than Cai?”

“Yes,” he answers with unrepentant honesty and a grin before pulling her down into a kiss.

  
  


It's been a couple of hours since she and Renatus split from the other two and a little over an hour since they ate or drank anything. She knows that they'll soon be running into Winnow and Gaspar and they'll have nothing to show for their search, when the two of them stumble into a dusty grove. The lack of moisture in the soil of this tree-less area and the spiny quality of the plants are all the confirmation she could, and didn't, want of her fears.

“Do you think there could be anything here?” asks the boy, sounding doubtful.

“There might be berries or tubers or… Look at this!” She drops onto her haunches to examine the bush but, an instant later, her head snaps up in response to the _thwump_ that followed hard on her words. Her heart catches in her throat and her head starts to spin when her eyes find him – there's an arrow protruding from Renatus' chest. “Re–Rena!” she squeaks and scrambles on all-fours over to him, oblivious to any continuing danger. She cradles his suddenly fragile-seeming head in her lap and strokes his hair, whispering his name all the while. When a second arrow lodges itself under her collarbone, she hardly registers it. “Rena, Renatus, I'm here. I promise, I'm not going to leave you.” He can't respond – all that comes out of his lips is frothy blood – but she feels his muscles relax and that's the moment when tears begin to roll down her cheeks. The fingers of one of her hands – her warm, raw, insistent fingers – are pressed against the side of his neck and she can feel the slowing of his pulse. In fact, her entire world has contracted to the sensation of that lessening beat under her fingers and the silky hair through which her other hand is passing. It is only when his pulse finally ceases that she realises Gaspar and Winnow are in the clearing with her.

“You've got an arrow sticking out of you!” her district-partner is yelling. “Why didn't you get the hell outta here?!”

“Because,” she answers, her voice quavering. “he deserves better than that, you heartless, mangy bastard!” She eases that all-too-vulnerable head onto the dry ground and then, with surprising alacrity, flies at Gaspar, knives appearing her hands as though by magic. However, this time, he's ready for her murderous attack and brings up the haft of his spear to block her blades. Unfortunately for him, she's anticipated his defence; instead of fighting him, she tosses aside her weapons and slides underneath the horizontal bar of his, slamming the soles of both feet into one of his shins. He collapses on top of her, pushing the arrow deeper into her chest. She tries to cry out but the spear, which is now between them, is crushing her wind-pipe. Black clouds start to gather at the edges of her vision and she's sure that she's going to die at Gaspar's hands after all, when he's suddenly yanked off of her.

“Be you both out of your senses?!” hisses Winnow. “The boy is dead and it is very sad but we cannot kill one another. We need one another still. We must kill the others and, most of all, the snake that be his district-partner.”

“Come on,” snarls Gaspar. “Let's get the hell out've here, so they can get the body.” His district-partner wishes that Winnow wasn't right, wishes she could just kill him and let the hovercraft relieve her of the body.

“His… medallion,” she gasps, still finding it difficult to breathe.

“You are wanting his token?” inquires Winnow, frowning.

“We… said… take… Mukh… ba… za's… so… Rena's… too.”

“Gaspar, keep watch,” the younger girl orders. He takes in both women's mulish expressions and complies. Winnow bends over Renatus first, removing his medallion – which she presses into Iristina's hand – and then his pack. She digs through the rucksack until she comes up with one of the medical kits she assembled on the first day. Once she has all of the supplies she needs, Winnow approaches her stricken ally once again and, cautiously but firmly, removes the arrow from Iristina's chest. They're lucky and it doesn't splinter on the way out. More fortunately still, it didn't hit anything vital on the way in, so there is very little blood when the projectile is removed. Winnow presses a sterile pad to the hole and binds it in place. “It may be that the medicine for Gaspar's face will help your wound. We will see later. Can you walk?”

“I _have_ to,” bites out the other girl. She gets to her feet, without accepting any assistance, and staggers over to Renatus' side. She looks down on his sweet, childish face – marred only by the blood on his lips and chins – and tries to commit every line of it to memory; she might not have loved him as he would have wished but she still owes him more than she will ever be able to repay. Eventually, she lifts her head – which is starting to throb from the increasing heat – and says: “Come on, let's get outta here.”

  
  


Cai is in the main viewing room when Renatus' body is removed and he is in the background of the shot as the District 7 mentors are interviewed.

“Did you ever think Viatrix would be the one to kill Renatus?” asks the correspondent, over-eager.

“Yeah,” sighs Blight, running a hand over his face.

“She hated him from the moment they got on the train,” elaborates Amillaria. “It was as much as we could do to get her to eat meals at the same time as him.”

“Do you think she is going to win? You know, she's currently at the bottom of the betting.”

“I think her odds have just gotten worse,” retorts the girl's mentor, harshly. “The boy from District 9 might not care but both Ares and Winnow look like they want revenge and the tributes from 1, 2 and 4 still want her dead.”

“Yeah, she's just made herself some deadly enemies,” Blight agrees. The correspondent gives them a fake broad smile, then he spots Cai and clatters over to him on those ridiculous platform shoes that are currently the height of fashion.

“Well, Ares looks like she's taken this death pretty hard. Do you think she's going to go berserk?”

“I can't tell you what's going on in her head, you know,” he laughs, all charm and affability. “But, from what I know of her, this death will only spur Ares onto further aggression. She's not the type to be blinded by revenge – I mean, yeah, she'll want to kill Viatrix herself – but she won't let that get in the way of winning. Her main priority will still be going after Calidia, Proc, Glaucus and Tadia.” At least, he hopes so. The correspondent plasters on a grin and then turns to Gaius.

“How does it feel, Mr Thell, to have both tributes from District 9 in the final eight? This hasn't happened for years, has it?”

 


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own any of the Hunger Games characters (sigh), places or objects.  
> Everything you recognise from the original trilogy belongs to Suzanne Collins; anything that reminds you of the films probably belongs to the people who made those; and there are probably quotes and quirks borrowed from the myriad books I have read.

“Right,” begins Gaspar, straightening from pitching the one tent they'll need tonight. “I'm gonna go scope out the competition. You two stay put and try not to get yerselfs killed.”

“Don't you be going throwing no more stones,” Iristina shoots back at him, feeling almost back to her usual self, physically. “Cause we won't be there to save your ass this time around.” She can see his grip tighten on the haft of the same spear that almost killed her early but he stalks off without responding.

“I do not understand you and him,” frowns Winnow, sitting with her back to a nearby tree. “I thought you were the best of friends.”

“We were,” sighs the older girl as though actually remembering a lost friendship. “In District 9 and the Tributes' Parade. Since then… I don't know. Something about training with professionals, being reminded that this is a competition that only one can survive, then being in here and killing all those people…”

“But I thought he was dying, that he did not want to win?” Iristina shrugs and gives her ally an unhappy smile.

“I don't know. Maybe seeing all these kids die has made him realise that three more years and a slow death aren't so bad after all.” She lets herself lapse back into thinking about the boy who had died earlier, her true friend. They may not have talked much about home – she does know that his father is dead and his mother and sisters (20 and 12) live with an aunt – she had felt a connection with him from that first morning in the training rooms. Originally, she had thought it nothing more than her gambler's instinct recognising a potential champion but, now, she wonders what could have been. What might have happened if they had gone to school together? Or if they met 20 years in the future in the Capitol she a victor and he a… what had he said he wanted to be? An architect, that was it. If they had met in the Capitol in 20 years' time, what would have happened?

“Ares!” Winnow's voice cracks through her spiralling thoughts like a lightning bolt, forcing her back into a present she does not want to face. She reads the question in the other girl's eyes and sighs heavily.

“We are _not_ going to go hunting her down. And, if you want to stay part of this gang, you are _not_ going to go rogue.”

“But– but– but–“ Winnow's eyes and mouth have taken on the appearance of a flounder and, if she wasn't so drained from the long day and the heat and the grief, Iristina knows she would be cracking up. “She killed her district-partner!”

“Winnow,” she says, weary but authoritative. “These are the Hunger _Games_ and we are playing to win. If we let ourselves get distracted by personal revenge, we _will_ lose.”

“But–“

“If we go chasing after Viatrix, then our guard will drop towards the Career Pack and they will catch us off-guard and massacre us. Our primary focus must still be killing them and, if we catch her along the way, all the better.”

  
  


“Don't you love her?!” extols Flickerman. “Not just a beautiful face but a keen strategist, too.”

“Yes but you can't forget Calidia Murano – she's also very beautiful and intelligent,” points out Templesmith.

“Oh, yes!” enthuses his co-anchor. “If it wasn't for Ares, I'd say Calidia had this sewn up but… well, they both got a 10 in training, both killed in the initial bloodbath, both came out of that battle the other day uninjured–“

“Yes but that's all true of Gaspar Barjon, too, except he got an 11 in training.”

“That is true,” concedes the master-of-ceremonies, his golden head bobbing above his midnight-blue suit, making him look like a human tableau of night and day. “However, that young man hasn't killed anyone since that first day and he does seem to have a death-wish. I mean, starting that fight between the two alliances and he's now goaded Ares into attacking him twice.”

“She did seem awfully upset at Renatus' death,” chuckles Templesmith and Cai wonders if he knows about Flickerman's… he doesn't know what label to put on it, doesn't know what it means to her, his girl. Worse, he doesn't know what _he_ means to her or how much she really cared for the boy that just got killed. He hadn't believed her when she said the Games are all that matter to her but, now, he doesn't know what to believe. Today, the sixth day, had been fairly slow until the boy's death with Ares' Gang trekking around the island looking for means of hydration and the Career Pack moving their camp from the Cornucopia, after Calidia decided it was too exposed to the elements. So, the Gamemakers had needed a lot of filler and her budding romance with Renatus gave them that. They have spent hours speculating about what would happen if the couple were the last two tributes standing, interviewing victors who had a love interest in their Games (including Haymitch and Daria) and even wheeling out Atala to talk about how they behaved towards each other during training. Ares has dominated the Hunger Games coverage for the past day – ever since she ran off in search of Renatus after hearing the cannon that announced Attie's death – and he finds himself wondering if that was her only motivation in playing nice with the kid or will he be competing for affections against a ghost.

_I &G_

Gaspar returns an hour after sunset, when the two girls are beginning to feel the cold.

“Why haven't you lit the fire?” he grumbles, seeing the heap wood between them.

“One,” drawls Iristina, feeling really drowsy from the combination of drugs she's taken this afternoon. “We weren't sure if t'were safe. And, two, Winnow cannae light a fire and the morphling's knocked out me fine– can't be using me fingers, no way.” She tries to raise her right hand from the ground but it feels as heavy as the boulder with which she brained the bear.

“You gave her morphling?” demands Gaspar, incredulous.

“The medicine for your eye be working but the pain was intolerable. She gave one screech – sounded like a bird, so it be no threat by itself – and I could not let her do it a second time, so I gave her the morphling. What else should I have done?”

“ _Anything_ else. Krill– This guy in our district, friend of hers, had a problem with morphling and I think he'd her doing it too.” A man crouches down in front of her, a handsome man with gentle hands who pushes her eyelids open and calls her name. She wants to answer, wants to tell him that she's just fine and more than fine, but that would take too much effort and all she wants to do is sleep. “Damn it! She be dropping to sleep. If she do that, I no know if she wake again. We need charcoal!”

“That, we have!” Winnow tears apart her carefully constructed tepee of sticks to dig out the charcoal they brought with them from their previous camp-fire.

“Now, just need ta make her swallow an it.”

  
  


“Where are you going?” demands Amina, when Cai jumps to his feet.

“I have a friend– client, who had a morphling addiction. He can afford the proper antidote and he's betting on her to win.”

“You've seen him since the Games began?” The older woman looks completely gob-smacked.

“Where d'ya think I've been every night?”

“Partying or pressing the flesh with sponsors like us all.”

“Well, I been pressing flesh and servicing clients. I gotta get Stamatis on the blower.”

  
  


Winnow is still grating charcoal with a flint when the silver parachute arrives.

“Gaspar!” she calls and he looks up from his constant vigil over Iristina's deteriorating breathing. He frowns at the other girl until she points out the new arrival, which he retrieves the new arrival, which he retrieves as swiftly as possible. Winnow drops her implements when she sees that the container holds a syringe and approaches him slowly, worried that he might lash out if she makes any sudden moves.

“Do you know how to use one of these?” he asks, sounding lost and frightened. Winnow nods and takes the instrument from him. She easily finds another thick, blue vein in the crook of the patient's left elbow and injects the medicine. They sit back and wait for her to wake.

  
  


“Another twist in the tale,” rumbles Claudius Templesmith, evidently enjoying the entertainment value Iristina is providing. She's the perfect flawed heroine – a fierce and intelligent leader, who regularly requires her allies to look after her. “A potential morphling addiction started by a man called Krill. I wonder who he is!”

“Well, I'm sure we'll find out tomorrow, when our special correspondent will be in District 9 to profile the first joint-volunteers from an outlying district in the whole history of the Games,” enthuses Flickerman. “And isn't it so exciting that they have both reached the final eight?!”

“Let's see if she's recovered from her morphling injection.” The screen switches to a view of Ares with her arms around Gaspar, sobbing her gratitude into his shoulder.

“Just… just keep that stuff away from me,” she laughs, turning to pull Winnow into a hug.

  
  


They make a meal out of the scraps they have left and drink a whole bottle of water each. Then, there is nothing to do but fidget and chat until the seal appears in the sky. They all stand, although Iristina is very unsteady, and stare up at Renatus' face – not his face as she last saw it but his face as it was in his interview, proud and laughing.

“I'll take the first watch,” she offers in a subdued voice, once the anthem has died away. The other two exchange a worried look.

“Do you not think you should get your rest?” Winnow suggests, tentatively.

“Yeah but, if I went to sleep now, I might not wake up again. So, I'll take the first watch and then I can sleep the rest of the night.”

“OK,” smiles Gaspar. “Wake me in four hours.” He and Winnow crawl into the tent and leave her to the quiet and chill of the night. It's not extreme cold but simply a nice relief from the day's heat, so she concludes that the Gamemakers are not trying to kill them through exposure. In fact, considering how deadly this year's Games have proved– she winces as her memorised image of Renatus' face flashes into her mind's eye. Oh, she wants a bit, just a little bit, to take the edge off. The sex had helped those last few days in the Capitol and then, since she got here, there has been constant pressure that kept her sharp. Now, however, something has happened that makes her want to crawl into oblivion but she can't and she knows she can't; they still have five enemies to kill. She's just about to wake Gaspar and slip into a less complete oblivion, when the cannon sounds. Her face scrunches into a frown; evidently, the Careers have been hunting Viatrix all this time and they've just caught up with her. She's not happy because, despite what she said to Winnow earlier, she had wanted to kill the girl herself. Then a second cannon sounds and her expression lightens, slightly. So, it was Viatrix tracking the Careers, instead, and she's taken out another one of them before being caught. She's down to just three enemies she has to kill; two steps closer to ending Gaspar, once and for all.

  
  


thought that Ares' drug problem was going to be tonight's scandal but Districts 2 and 4 being out of the running before 7, 9 and 11 is _big_ news.

“Did you… You and Finnick didn't set this up, did you?” he asks Adolphus, although the older man looks just as dumb-founded as himself and confirms that impression with a shake of his head.

“The boy must have done it himself,” answers his colleague, sounding dazed.

“Yeah… but why?”

“Gaspar did say he was stupid,” suggests Daria, weakly. The three of them stare at the screen for another moment, dumb-founded by Glaucus' actions. “How do you think they'll fill the screen-time tomorrow with only a final six tributes?” The two men can only shake their heads; a Career tribute has rarely turned on his allies so soon and never without an escape route.

_I &G_

When she wakes the next morning, her arrow-wound has healed to a puckered scar and, when she crawls out of the tent to join the others, they both seem well-rested and fully recovered from their own collections of wounds. She sits down beside Winnow and leans against the other girl. As much as she wishes that Renatus was here with them, the knowledge that it's down to the three of them and three Careers gives her a sense of peace.

“So…” she starts, every inch of her body languid. “Just before I woke Gaspar, the cannon sounded twice.”

“I know,” answers the other girl with the broad smile of a cat sunning itself. “He told me when he woke me.” The young man looks at the two young women across from him and smirks before sighing.

“Pleasant as this is… shouldn't we be making a plan of campaign?” Iristina turns her face away from the all-too-warm sun and peels open one somnolent eyelid.

“Spoilsport,” she complains and he grins at her. She doesn't understand it but Renatus' death, almost killing her and saving her from the brink of a drug-induced coma last night has restored his good humour. Maybe he had been jealous of how close she had become with the younger boy or maybe he just wants to be the one to kill her and yesterday has made him believe that he can. Whatever the reason, Gaspar seems to be back on message and she's grateful; she needs an ally, not a wolf in sheep's clothing.

“We have very little food,” remarks Winnow, her mouth twisting downward.

“Yeah,” groans the older girl. “That is today's mission.”

“But what about them Careers?!” squawks Gaspar.

“If they attack us, well and good, we'll end them. But they ain't taken the initiative yet, have they?”

“But… ain't the Gamemakers gonna do something to force us together?”

“Not today,” she says with more certainty than she feels. “They have to profile the final ei– six.” They all share wolfish grins.

“Can you imagine how happy they are at home?” beams Winnow, turning her face up to the sun again. “The last time a tribute from District 11 made it to the final eight was in the 64th Hunger Games. And _both_ of you being here! District 9 must be delighted.”

“Yeah…” Iristina exchanges a look with her district-partner. They can only hope that no-one at home gives the game away and she's worrying Krill might do something stupid. Today, Day 7, could destroy all of their carefully constructed strategy and there's nothing they can do to control it.

 


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own any of the Hunger Games characters (sigh), places or objects.  
> Everything you recognise from the original trilogy belongs to Suzanne Collins; anything that reminds you of the films probably belongs to the people who made those; and there are probably quotes and quirks borrowed from the myriad books I have read.

“Today is the day that I have been eagerly anticipating ever since the Reaping and I'm sure all of you have too,” announces Flickerman with a wink. It's 10am and none of the remaining tributes are doing anything very interesting. Calidia and Proc are sorting through their supplies, deciding what they can still carry and what to abandon now that there's only two of them. Viatrix has made her way up to the Cornucopia and is picking through the meagre debris for anything useful. While Ares' Gang are making good on their plan to replenish their supplies. It seems as though today will, indeed, be a day of rest in the arena.

“It is so exciting, this year, as all four of our original favourites are still standing.” They replay the montage from Day 1 – Winnow, Gaspar, Iristina and Calidia as they were after the death of the girl who fell off her plinth – and then show close-ups of the same four faces as they are now. They've all lost weight and the pair from District 9 are both sporting facial scars but they all seem as daunting and determined as they did that first day.

“Well, let's find out a little more about Calidia Murano and her district-partner, Proc Certosa.” The screen fills with an image of the District 1 Justice Building and a young Capitol reporter on the steps. The mayor, who he interviews first, has done this so many times that he reels off an almost-identical speech year after year. Then, there are Calidia and Proc's friends – two gangs of potential Career tributes.

“I always think it's sad when they have no friends outside of training for the Hunger Games,” murmurs Daria, who is too soft-hearted in Cai's opinion. Next, there are the two tributes' families. Calidia, an only child, has no-one but her parents in a house that is so large that it looks like it belongs in a Victors' Village. Proc, on the other hand, actually _has_ grown up in District 1's Victors' Village as his father is a victor. The whole family – mother, father and three younger sisters – all have platinum-blonde hair and complete confidence in their man's ability to win.

  
  


“Now, we're going to visit the home district of Viatrix Purdy.” The mayor of District 7 has a much more difficult time praising the accomplishments of their surviving tribute. What do you say about a 13-year-old, whose latest kill was her district-partner? All of her classmates look stricken and none admit to being her friends; they keep repeating that they have no idea how she could have done something like this. They shove forward one boy, saying he was her boyfriend. Cai feels sorry for the lad, who looks even younger than Viatrix.”

“You must want her to come home, hey, laddie?” beams the local correspondent, trying to jostle some enthusiasm into the boy. He, however, looks whiter than all the others and shakes his head, vehemently.

“Renatus… he was my cousin,” he whispers, hoarsely. “How could she…?” The correspondent, obviously out of her depth, forces a smile and makes her excuses to escape the main square. Instead, she turns down the side-street that leads to Viatrix's home. Even with the judiciousness of the Capitol cameramen, it's possible to see Peacekeepers trying to restrain gangs of working people lining both sides of this side-street.

“Murderer! Murderous bitch!” screams a woman at the front of the crowd opposite the Purdys' front-door. “She murdered my baby boy!”

“Well,” laughs Flickerman, nervously, the editors having hastily cut back to the studio. “It seems that feeling is running high in District 7!”

“Indeed,” rejoins Templesmith. “It's always… invigorating to see the people in the districts taking such a… lively interest in the Games.” They cut back to the correspondent as soon as she is safely inside. She walks through a barren hallway that will be familiar to many a family in District 9. These sorts of homes aren't usually shown as it's so rare for a tribute from a poor family to get so far. Watching this down-at-heel correspondent traipse along the depressing hallway, Cai wonders what they'll do for Ares; she doesn't have any family and he hopes that no-one will mention her connection to Krill. The correspondent seats herself in a candy-stripe armchair, opposite the sofa upon which the Purdy family are sitting. Viatrix's mother is dowdy, father jaundiced and a little brother with spindly limbs and a rib-cage that's evident even through his shirt.

“So,” begins the correspondent, still trying to sound cheerful. “How does it feel to know your little girl has made it to the final eight?”

“We're horrified,” asserts the father, leaning forward. “O' course, we don't want to see our little girl die but, when she were Reaped, we knew that were going ta be the upshot. Can't think what she's doing.”

“I mean,” sobs Mrs Purdy. “Renatus used to babysit Bayan. He was a good kid. I can't believe she _did_ this.” It amuses Cai to watch the correspondent trying to get the Purdys back onto the Capitol message but it proves useless.

“We did not raise a monster,” asserts Mr Purdy. “And that's what she be becoming.”

“But she promised to win!” complains the boy.

“What talk you about, Bay?” demands his father, turning to look down on the child.

“When Via said goodbye to me, she promised to win, no matter what!” The cameras leave them there, undoubtedly worried that the Purdys might break into an argument that doesn't fit with the Capitol's vision of the Hunger Games.

“At least, our two are not the most rebellious,” points out Adolphus and Cai has to concede that there is one small mercy.

  
  


“Now, let's hear from our reporter in District 9, who are celebrating the unprecedented feat of both tributes reaching the final eight,” explains Templesmith and, indeed, the square in front of the Justice Building is filled with long tables and half the district seems to have turned out to share lunch. Mayor Evander's cadaverous face is alight with a smile as the Capitol reporter puts her standard questions.

“I'm more proud of Gaspar and Iristina than I can possibly say. I know them both personally and they are extraordinary young people – heroes to our entire district! Not only for their courage in volunteering but also for their bravery during the school fire five years ago. You know, Gaspar saved my own son from that fire and he's been like a second son to me and my wife ever since. And, of course, everyone knows Iristina, the Bear Girl.”

“The Bear Girl?” queries the reporter and the mayor launches into the tale with much more detail than the girl herself would ever bother with. Eventually, he wraps it up and the reporter edges in another question. “Is your son here? Oh, and what about… Ashlee Briskman?”

“Yes, of course. Ketill! Ashlee!” The two cousins come running over and are all-too-eager to answer questions about their famous friends. Next comes a succession of school-friends.

“I wonder how many of them Ares would describe as a friend,” chuckles Cai, who is deep in his cups by this time in the afternoon.

“Not the friendly type?” queries Haymitch.

“Only to useful people,” retorts his friend, starting to sound sour.

“Well, you're useful,” grins the other man, displaying his yellowing teeth. “Always know where to get the best booze.” Cai stares at him for a moment and then they both burst out laughing. At the blacksmith's home, all eight Barjons are worried but steadfast; apart from the youngest, a girl of 10, whose eyes are red when she lifts them from her mother's skirt. The family produce favourable answers to all the standard questions and make a much better impression than the Purdys.  
"So, we're all a little bewildered in the Capitol,” explains the correspondent with a polite smile. “Where does Iristina live? I mean, she can't possibly still live on the _streets_! Does she live here with you?" Cai's breath catches in his throat and he can feel his heart constrict. The wrong answer – more to point, the truthful answer – could destroy her; the Capitol might like their victors to be willing but they prefer their tributes to be innocent.  
"Nah," Mr Barjon scoffs. "It were that there bear."  
"Ah, yes, the bear," sighs the correspondent, evidently afraid the taciturn blacksmith will be the fourth person to tell that story today.

“Yeah, money she got from that were enough to get her a room come summer.”

“Right,” concedes the Capitol lady, although she sounds unconvinced. “Well, there's just one more thing. We were all so _terrified_ last night – you know, when she had that problem with the morphling? – and, well, Gaspar mentioned a… Krill. Do you know who that is?” The parents both frown and the older siblings look cautious.

“Well, Krill is the Head Peacekeeper here but I don't know how Iristina would know him.” Now, Cai really can't breathe; if they interview Krill…

“Head Peacekeeper. Starving girl. Is that the story he's gonna tell?” asks Haymitch and he wishes he could tell his friend to go to hell. He takes a shot from the bottle before answering.

“I have _no_ idea what Krill's gonna say.” He takes another shot. “She didnae wan' his name a-mentioned. Hates him, she does. So, he probably don't feel too pleasant towards her neither.”

“And the morphling?”

“No bloody clue. Didnae mention it.” He tips his head back and chugs a good third of the bottle before Haymitch snatches it from him. He watches, blearily, as the correspondent's car pulls up outside the office of the Head Peacekeeper. “Fat oaf,” he grunts as the man appears on screen, lounging in his desk-chair.

“Wassat?” frowns Haymitch.

“Fat oaf!”

“Nah, not that. Wassat in his arm?” Cai peers more closely at the screen and then he realises Krill has a needle sticking out of his arm.

“Bloody _stupid_ , fat oaf,” he cackles and swipes the bottle away from his friend.

“Who are you?” Krill asks, dreamily, in an unnaturally light voice.

“Hepzibah Bobbin. I'm from the Capitol.”

“Wanna talk about that lying whore?” growls Krill, his voice once more his own.

“I'm sorry?” simpers the correspondent, uncertain how to handle him. “Who–?”

“Iristina!” bellows the Peacekeeper, swaying to his feet. “That lying whore! She left me, then she told fucking Flickerman that she had no boyfriend… What was I, then?” he adds, reverting to the unnatural tone of voice. The correspondent catches sight of the needle in his arm.

“Are you are on _morphling_?” she asks, scandalised.

“How else am I meant to watch my girl in them Hunger Games?! Lying whore,” he mutters as an after-thought, his voice once more dropping into his native baritone.

“Well, I think that answers all our questions. Back to you, Caesar, Claudius.” As the co-anchors make some inane remarks to smooth over Krill's behaviour, Cai feels a grin spread over his face.

“What you so happy about?”

“He told 'em the truth but they'll never believe it. Everyone'll think 'er his victim.” Another thought strikes him and he brightens still further. “Bet 'e don't keep 'is job long after'n that.” The idea of Krill 'retired' is enough to make him want to be a little more sober. “Let's go grab some grub,” he suggests and slaps his friend on the chest. “I'm buying; been making out like a bandit this week.”

  
  


“Our final visit of the day is to District 11, home of Winnow Oonagh,” announces Templesmith. They haven't paid for a Capitol correspondent to go out there. A local reporter interviews the mayor, takes the camera on a walking tour to Winnow's family home and interviews the remaining residents.

“I can not imagine how life would be without our little girl,” sobs her mother.

“We lost our oldest boy two years ago to cholera,” explains Mr Oonagh. “And our second boy three years before that to an accident at work.” All of the faces in the small, dark room are sad and worried.

“But are you not proud of your daughter for coming so far?” prompts the reporter.

“Yes!” gasps her mother. “I only pray she can win!” The reporter drifts back into the streets to interview friends, teachers and parents for whom Winnow has babysat. They all agree that Winnow is the anchor of her family and a rock to the whole community. Winnow's form tutor drags the reporter and camera-man into the school and shows them a corridor lined with pictures of the girl at various events she has helped to organise.

“I do not know how any of us will go on without her. She is our hero.”

_I &G_

When they pitch camp that night and take stock of their supplies, she is well-pleased with their haul. In one of the traps Winnow set yesterday, they had found two animals that look like rodents but are the size of small deer. So, they have meat and they caught some fish but not many and they have gathered berries, edible bark and some tubers.

“Wish we still had some of Renatus' bread,” she offers with a rueful smile and the other two nod.

“Lend us a hand, Tina; cant get the blasted thing to light.” She levers herself up and, 10 minutes later, they have a heap of smoking boughs.

“How is it that it's getting hotter every day but the tree branches are too wet to light easily?”

“I do not know. It seems to make no sense,” answers Winnow, who is gutting fish. They sit around – chewing bark, cleaning fish, washing tubers – until they can cook on the fire. Their meal is done and they are about to decide who will take each watch, when the seal appears in the sky.

“Let's see who Viatrix killed for us,” suggests Gaspar and they all move to where they have a clear view of the seal. The first face to appear is that of the girl from 2 but it's followed by Glaucus' picture. They're all still staring at the sky, waiting for a female face with a number 7 to appear, when the anthem starts to play. Iristina turns to look at the other two and sees her own horror reflected on their faces.

“Viatrix is still alive.”

 


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own any of the Hunger Games characters (sigh), places or objects.  
> Everything you recognise from the original trilogy belongs to Suzanne Collins; anything that reminds you of the films probably belongs to the people who made those; and there are probably quotes and quirks borrowed from the myriad books I have read.

Winnow wakes her in the small hours before there's even a hint of dawn in the sky. She's holding out one of the padded, thermal jackets.

“You must take this. It is no longer warm.” She takes the jacket and lets her friend take the sleeping-bag It's not exactly cold outside the tent but the temperature must be half what it was the day before. She wonders if the temperature drop had been gradual or sudden. A sudden cooling, which she suspects was the case, could have been very problematic for anyone without the benefit of tent or thermal sleeping-bag, someone like Viatrix. She wonders why the Gamemakers would want to target one tribute in particular. She buckles on her knife-belt before drawing on the jacket, which she leaves unfastened, and then settles down to think. Every nerve in her body is screaming at her to hunt down that cowardly little chit and give the Capitol audiences a show that will go down in infamy but their pact with Winnow is only for killing Careers and they still have two of those left. Although Iristina knows that the other girl shares her thirst for vengeance, she also knows it makes more sense to use Winnow to help them kill Calidia and Proc. Then, of course, she could hope that Viatrix would kill the other girl, sparing either of them from having to do it. Of course, she knows that neither she nor Gaspar would hold their hand if it came down to it but wouldn't that be true of their ally, too? Isn't it likely that they'll kill the second Career and then have to fight Winnow off? It's only then that it hits her: Winnow hasn't killed anyone yet. She, Renatus and Gaspar all killed on the first day and then she was forced to kill the girl from 12 on the second but Winnow hasn't killed anyone. It hasn't occurred to her to ask Gaspar about how much damage the other girl did during the battle on Day 4 but she now wonders if her friend is actually capable of deadly force.

“Even if she is, she won't want to start with an ally,” she murmurs to herself. In fact, as much as she hates the idea of killing Winnow, it occurs to her that it might be easier for her and Gaspar to do it than for Winnow to kill them.

_I &G_

She's abandoned the jacket by the time the sun actually rises and the blaring heat drives the other two out of the tent less than an hour later.

“It got so cold last night,” complains Gaspar, grabbing a water bottle. “Now look at it!” She nods and takes a short pull from her own water bottle.

“What are we going to do today?” inquires Winnow, shedding her standard-issue jacket and settling onto the dusty ground.

“The usual,” answers Iristina, keeping her face deliberately blank. “Have breakfast, strike camp, kill the Careers…” Both dark heads whip around to stare at her.

“Are you sure today's the day?” asks her district-partner. “It's only Day 8.”

“Yes but we ain't been left with much competition and, as far as we know, nothing interesting happened yesterday. If we just sit tight today, the Gamemakers might be tempted to spice things up. Besides,” – her eyes flick to Winnow – “we have a deal and we can't go neglecting our mission.” The other two nod and Iristina interprets the look in the other girl's eyes as an understanding of her ulterior motives.

“Right. Better have a good breakfast, then,” comments Gaspar as though completely oblivious to the non-verbal communication going on right under his nose. She knows it's an act but she's not about to disillusion Winnow, if the younger girl is at risk of underestimating the boy.

  
  


“It seems both alliances are preparing for another confrontation,” announces Templesmith's voice as the screen shows the three camp-sites. While Viatrix sleeps on, safely perched in a tree, the other five have finished breakfast and are checking their weapons.

“I wonder if our three Out-lyers know that Calidia and Proc have moved camp,” speculates Flickerman as the screen fills with a shot of their studio.

“I think not,” answers his co-anchor, pointing at the section of the panorama behind them that is focussed on Ares' Gang.

“Ready to start for the Cornucopia,” says her voice, loud and clear.

  
  


The hike up to the summit is much harder today. Firstly, it's blisteringly hot and, secondly, they're travelling in a straight line, not following the mountain's contours as they have no idea where Viatrix is and want to cover as little ground as possible.

“There's a… stream over there,” pants Gaspar, suddenly. In Iristina's estimation, the sun wants less than half an hour before it's at its zenith and their remaining water will only last them twice that.

“Let's… check it out!” she gasps back at him. To their delight and her surprise, the stream proves to be a babbling brook, not a mere trickle.

“We could wash,” suggests Winnow, tentatively. The pair from 9 look at each other and then burst out laughing.

“Yeah, we do stink a bit,” grins the boy.

“That is not what I am meaning,” protests the younger girl, blushing very prettily.

“Better fill the water bottles first. The iodine needs half an hour,” points out Iristina and the other two agree. She has just stoppered the last bottle when she hears Winnow laugh.

“A parachute!” calls the other girl. “With soap!” Now, Iristina is laughing too.

“Guess someone wants–“ She cuts herself off just in time; it does no good to appear too knowledgeable about how the Games work.

“There be a sorta pool just up the way,” Gaspar informs them. “Why don't you two go first, stand guard for each other and I'll mind the supplies?” She is less than content with this plan but can see no way around it. So, carrying only their weapons, the soap and the blanket that usually goes underneath their sleeping-bags, the two girls climb to the point where the brook widens.

“It'll be quite a scramble to get down there,” she observes.

“Why do you not stay here to guard?” suggests the other girl and Iristina nods. Winnow drops her spear and divests herself of her outer clothing before taking the soap and blanket from her ally. The older girl has to admit herself envious of the black girl's body: her skin is flawless, despite her battle wounds, and her stomach is as taut as a drum but it is Winnow's abundant chest that Iristina really covets. Personally, she's always been 'pretty enough' with 'nice enough' breasts but the other girl is truly breath-taking and she can feel jealously swelling within her. She turns her back on the water – where Winnow is, undoubtedly, performing an artless striptease that will have the sponsor delighted that he shelled out for the soap – and sets herself to scanning the trees for the slightest sign of movement. The sun is past its zenith before she hears the other girl return.

“The water is _delicious_ ,” purrs Winnow, holding out the soap and blanket. Iristina strips down to her underwear before gathering her knife-belt and the bathing paraphernalia to her chest. The younger girl frowns when she realises that her ally is taking the weapons with her. “I will be standing guard.”

“I know but what if someone is walking in the river? I just feel safer having something with me,” she adds with a re-assuring smile. It has occurred to her, if not the other girl, that Gaspar might take this opportunity to kill Winnow and possibly her too. She makes her way down the sloping bank as gracefully as possible and then forces herself to remember that she is probably on every screen in Panem and they want what every man who has ever bought her wants: a show by a willing woman. So, she drops her burdens to the ground – nudging the knife-belt with her toe so that it isn't hidden by the blanket – and then reaches behind her back for the clasp of her bra. Before she undoes it, she bends forward slightly, ensuring that when the clasp releases her breasts drop down and jiggle tantalisingly. She then lets her arms fall forward and encourages the bra to slide down them by shaking her shoulders. Once it hits the ground, she straightens up and stretches her interlaced fingers over her head. She then drops back down, hooks one thumb into the elastic of the panties at the front and the other at the back, and then slides both thumbs clockwise until they reach her generous hips. She pauses to smile for the camera and then slides the unflattering garment down her shapely legs. After the languorous striptease, she makes quick work of cleaning herself and resumes the filthy underclothes with no ceremony. She clambers back up the bank to find Gaspar, not Winnow, waiting for her.

“I was wondering what was taking so long,” he explains but she does not release the knife hilt she had grabbed upon seeing him.

“Where's Winnow?” she asks in a carefully measured voice.

“Sent 'er to guard the provisions.” She can't see blood or Winnow's spear and the cannon hasn't sounded, so she lets go of the knife and hands him the moist blanket and grimy soap. He puts down Rena's axe and takes the bathing paraphernalia from her. She waits until he's out of sight before unbuckling the knife-belt and redressing.

  
  


“I say!” gasps Amina as her favoured tribute finally drops his pants.

“Yes. They all know how to put on a show,” observes Adolphus, dryly.

“Must've been what the sponsor were looking for,” points out Cai, who has been steadily drinking spirits since the soap arrived.

“Yes but they don't know that,” says Daria, covering her discomfort with a giggle. He swings around to stare at her, eyebrows raised in sardonic incredulity.

“The girl– Winnow might not but I'm pretty sure Ares and Gaspar know _exactly_ what were expected of them in return for the soap.”

“Caecilius is right; they are not children,” her husband interposes.

“But they're too young for that–!“

“She's older than Finnick,” Cai mutters, morosely. Daria stares at him as though she had failed to comprehend all this meant.

“Yeah but he's a victor and she's–“

“A slut!” Amina spits out. He rather wishes it was him and Amina in the arena in Ares and Gaspar's places; he would like to be able to fight her to the death as tributes do.

  
  


The three of them take a light meal and drink a lot of water, which they then replenish, before moving away from the brook again. She is not entirely comfortable that they have spent over an hour beside what is probably the only remaining source of fresh water and have seen no sign of another tribute. She gets more suspicious yet when it takes them less than an hour to reach the external slope of the mountain's crown.

“They're not here,” she predicts with sick certainty.

“How'd ya mean?” demands Gaspar but she doesn't answer, intent on scanning the tree-line. “Damn it! Must've cleared out before that wind last night.”

“What wind?” she demands, spinning around to give him the benefit of her frown.

“That's when it got so cold. Ice wind blew through about eleven.” So, it had been a Gamemaker trick. “An' all that's left up there looks like been around the Cornucopia before thickie wind and now where wind left it.”

“How the _hell_ are we going to find them?” she hisses and kicks the ground.

  
  


“Maybe they'll find you, Ares,” grins Flickerman but Cai, who's looking for some sign, spots that the smile doesn't reach the master-of-ceremonies' eyes. The aerial map re-appears and the two red dots are approaching the summit; not from the river but with the western pool to their backs. The green dot is away in the east and, the last time they showed Viatrix, it seemed like she's suffering severe dehydration. The screen fills with a feed from somewhere in front of and below the two District 1 tributes. They're wielding machetes – cutting their way through a patch of over-grown vines – and, every time that Proc's comes anywhere near her, Calidia flinches.

“Those two don't seem to have been getting on too well since Proc killed Glaucus,” remarks Templesmith, sounding cheerful.

“How _do_ we find them?” Winnow is asking when the coverage returns to the cameras nearest Ares' Gang.

“I'd say a smoky fire but, if they wanted to find us, they would've used the one last night,” muses their leader. “No, we'll have to go looking for them. Now, they'll need water, same as us…”

“There was a pool on that side of the mountain,” says the girl from 11, pointing to the west. “I saw it when we were running from the last battle.”

“So, they might have seen it when they were chasing you… OK, let's check it out.”

“Well,” pants Templesmith's disembodied voice. “Five of our remaining six tributes are about to meet in battle. Last time the two alliances met in open warfare, three of the eight were mortally wounded and all medicine is now ten times as expensive as it was on Day 4.”

“Do we have enough money to send them _anything_ if they get hurt?” asks Daria, worriedly. Amina and Cai exchange a look.

“Maybe you should be charming sponsors, “ suggests Adolphus, casually. The rivals leave without another word, while the other three turn their attention back to the drama unfolding on-screen.

“I'mma pray,” mumbles Gaius before getting up and stalking out.

  
  


They walk more than half of the summit's circumference before Winnow is happy they're in the right place. They've gone less than half a mile when their way is blocked by a thicket of vines.

“Machetes,” orders Gaspar and something in the corner of Iristina's eye stops moving.

“Down!” she screams and they all drop in time for the thrown spear to miss them. “I think we found them.” She's laughing and she knows it's a bad and dangerous sign but she can't force herself to stop. Gaspar sheathes his machete and pulls Renatus' axe from his belt, instead. He gets to his feet and the two girls cautiously follow his lead. The boy begins to hack away at the vines in front of him, while Iristina turns her machete on those to their left. She can feel Winnow at her back and knows the other girl has her spear extended like a stave. After a few minutes' concerted hacking, she can see daylight through the greenery. In an instant, she's dropped the machete and is throwing knife after knife at the darting figure just beyond her reach. She spins around to warn Winnow but comes up short when she sees Proc with one muscled arm around her ally's throat and the spear lying, useless, on the ground at his feet. “Gaspar!” she hisses and, as he turns to face their adversary, the Career rams a knife up under the other girl's ribs. “Winnow!” she shrieks and throws her remaining knife at Proc. It sticks in the joint of his right shoulder, causing him to howl in agony and release the girl's limp body. Gaspar dives for the fallen spear and she runs to her friend's side.

“His… token,” gasps Winnow. Iristina drops to her knees and her fingers fly mechanically to Mukhbaza's collar that her dying ally is wearing on her throat. “And… uh! And… my… star.” The dying girl raises her wrist, weakly, and Iristina is sliding the bracelet off when Proc lands on top of her. She rolls across Winnow's body, the boy's arms locked around her own neck, and lands with him underneath her. She smashes her elbow back into his nose, then gets up and runs for her life. Devoid of weapons, she has to leave Gaspar to his fate and she sincerely hopes the Careers will kill him.

 


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own any of the Hunger Games characters (sigh), places or objects.  
> Everything you recognise from the original trilogy belongs to Suzanne Collins; anything that reminds you of the films probably belongs to the people who made those; and there are probably quotes and quirks borrowed from the myriad books I have read.

It's another two hours before Gaspar arrives at the meeting point the four of them had selected on the second day. He is battered and bloodied, and in a foul temper.

“You _left_ me!” he snarls.

“I was out of weapons!” she objects, holding out her empty hands to him.

“What be that 'round yer, then?!” he spits, jerking his chin at the knife-belt buckled around her waist.

“The one I hid here when we chose it as our meeting point!” she retorts, exasperated. “Now, let me see about getting you cleaned up.”

“Don't touch me!” he growls at her, throwing himself backwards, away from her proffered hand.

“Oh, whataya think I'm gonna do? Kill ya?!” she snaps, her patience and attempt at kindness evaporating.

“Why not?! I know you want me dead! Wish I'd died, not Winnow; wish I'd died, not _Renatus_. How're ya gonna cope with no boyfriend? Gonna make do with me?! Maybe it don't matter to you, maybe all ya want is a warm body and a prick, you cheap slut!” She knows he's doing it on purpose, knows he wants to get a rise out of her but she can't help it, she flies at him. This time, she doesn't draw steel and he leaves the spear lying on the ground. She thuds into him with her palms slamming into his solar plexus and he stumbles backwards. His heel catches on an exposed root as he's trying to head-butt her and he goes crashing to the ground with her on top of him. She's just about to draw a blade and end him, when she registers the furious tears in his eyes and the hardness pressing against her stomach.

“You sick pervert!” she spits in his face. “I thought we were _friends_.” She shoves herself away from him, using the backward momentum to stagger to her feet. “I'm gonna go set up camp. Clean _yerself_ up, Gazzer.”

_I &G_

“…one of the shortest Hunger Games in living memory,” Templesmith is saying as Cai enters the bar. Chaff, Seeder, Haymitch and Blight are already sprawled across the benches in a booth.

“Hey, guys,” he groans, dropping onto the red velvet beside Chaff. “I'm sorry, mate.” He claps the older man on the shoulder before turning to Blight. “I've _no_ idea what to say to you, mate.”

“No worries. I don't know what to say, either. This just don't happen in District 7; our tributes do _not_ kill each other. Y'know, I just received a subscription from the people – they want to send a loaf of bread to your two! They said, in no uncertain terms, that I'm not to use any of their money to help Viatrix.

“How's Amillaria doing?” slurs Haymitch, barely lifting his head.

“Not good. I mean, Viatrix spooked both of us from the beginning but she's Amie's responsibility. I mean, I can wash my hands of her if I like but Amie's got to stick by her, no matter what.”

“So, my two're gonna wake up to District 7 bread?” Cai prompts, sipping on his second drink.

“Nah, sorry. Weren't enough cash. I sent it back to the mayor, told him to buy everyone some extra food. It's not like we're gonna win this year.”

“I dunno,” spews Haymitch. “She's sneaky that one and with the bow…”

“Yeah but Ares ain't gonna let her live,” Blight sighs, running a hand over his face. “I hope she wins, Cai, I really do.”

“My round, I think,” he says, pushing himself off of the bench. He can't quite look his friends right now, not with his girl's face filling the TV screens.

  
  


She's let Gaspar take the sleeping-bag first because he needs the rest more than she does and she doesn't trust him not to kill her or fuck her in her sleep. This night has a different feel to the one after Renatus' death. Then, she had been elated at the thought that Viatrix was dead and they were evenly matched against the Careers, although sorry that the dear, sweet boy was dead. Now, there's nothing but ashes in her mouth. Renatus and Winnow are both dead, her only ally is her oldest enemy and they still face danger from two separate foes. She groans and drops her head into her hands. Despite the deaths and injuries dealt by herself and others, the Games had not seemed overly difficult until now. Now, she wants to curl up in a ball and howl but she can't. She can't show the least sign of weakness to Gaspar. Gaspar… what is she going to do with him? Should she kill him now, leaving herself alone to face the other three? No, she needs him still; she just has to make him see it.

“Hey!” she calls in a whisper, having just entered the tent. “Gaspar!” He answers her with an inquisitive grunt, which she takes as an indication that he isn't really awake yet. She reaches out, grabs one booted foot through the fabric and shakes it, vigorously.

“Wha' time i' it?” he grumbles in response.

“Moon's at its zenith,” she answers with a yawn.

“A'right',” he groans and pushes himself upright. He lets out a long moan of pain. “Feels worse'n las' night.”

“Is there anything I can do?” she offers, wanting to seem co-operative but she would rather just climb into the sleeping-bag.

“Thanks but no. It'll just take time. Can we take it slow, tomorrow?”

“Sure. I wasn't thinking of attacking again. I think it's their turn to take the initiative.”

“That's a point. They've been running scared from us this whole time. Let them be the ones to hike after us and attack tired.” He pulls himself free of the sleeping-bag and crawls out of the tent. She slips into the roll of bedding, which still holds his body warmth and his scent, and settles down to get some sleep.

_I &G_

They take the next day very slowly. They eat breakfast, pack up camp and then make a leisurely circuit of the beach. They don't even hunt as their stores are still replete. None of the other tributes do anything more interesting, either. Viatrix is hidden down a rabbit-warren, eating raw meat and weeds. Proc and Calidia are both pretty banged up from their confrontation with Ares and her allies yesterday. They also spend all day in one place. However, Cai can tell that the Capitol audiences aren't happy; there's a restive feeling in the air and no-one has sent Proc the medicine he needs. Even at this stage of the Games, it is remarkable that a Career would be left with his weapon-arm incapacitated and the co-anchors remark upon it, constantly.

“Why aren't they fighting?” bemoans one of the sponsors with whom he and the Barvens are dining.

“Calistra,” says her husband, reprovingly. “They are wounded.”

“The _boy_ is but why doesn't Ares kill him and hunt down the others?” Cai is about to open his mouth, when the corner of his eye catches Adolphus leaning forward and expanding to make himself look impressively dignified.

“I agree with you that _Ares_ probably could kill all of her competition,” he begins, his voice measured and melodic. “But I do think that _she_ does not believe so. It is my understanding that she intends to retain Gaspar as an ally until they have killed the Archeress or maybe, still yet, the pair from District 1.” He leans back in his chair with a smile that suggests he has just answered every question they could have.

“But why aren't they out there hunting the others down, then?” the youngest guest wails.

“Look at it like this,” Cai answers, leaning in towards the centre of the table and flashing her a wink and a smile. “Every time that Ares and Gaspar have faced the pair from District 1 and their allies, it has been our two who have started things. Must've gotten a bit boring for them.” That raised a laugh from the whole company. “Sure, nothing much's happened today but, trust me, things will heat up tomorrow.”

_I &G_

When the sun begins to rise on Day 10, she is sitting with her back to the summit in something of a doze-like trance. She is just straightening up, in preparation for waking Gaspar, when she hears a loud _CRACK_ and the sky goes dark. She spins around and stares at the mushroom-like cloud rising from the top of the mountain.

“Gaspar!” she screams. “Gaspar!” She's ripping open the tent-flap and grabbing her rucksack. “Gaspar! We have to _run_!”

“What is it?” he demands, sounding hoarse but wide awake.

“Gamemakers! Not sure what.” At once, he's scrabbling out of the sleeping-bag, picking up his own rucksack and the pair of them start to run for the beach, letting the curve of the mountain guide their path. Less than five minutes from their camp, she's stopped just short of a steep ravine with a thin rivulet of water at the bottom, trying to work out how to cross it but then Gaspar crashes into her from behind and they both fall into the gully. Upon hitting the water, they scream and jump up. “It's boiling! How's it boiling?” Gaspar, his mouth hanging open, points behind her and she turns to see… “We have to get outta here!” she yells at him and they both start scrambling up the far side of ravine.

“It's useless!” he shouts at her, pulling her away from the bank and along the stream-bed.

“We can't out-run lava!” she yells at him, running as fast as she can.

“It ain't moving… all that… fast,” he wheezes and that's when she notices how difficult it is to breathe. “Probably… don't want us… dead. Just… grouped together.” Part of her mind – the part that isn't desperately trying to remember how to breathe during a volcanic eruption – thinks that he has a point.

“It's still… gonna kill us… if we don't– There!” At this point, the left bank has flattened out almost to nothing and the two of them run up it, collapsing barely a dozen strides away from the gully. “Give me… your vest!” she demands, ending on a wheezing cough. He stares at her as though she's crazy but the girl takes no notice as she's digging through her rucksack. Having no breath to argue and seeing she has a plan, Gaspar begins stripping off.

  
  


“Well, it looks like our two under-dogs know what they're doing,” grins Flickerman as Ares tears up the under-shirt and drenches the strips in water from her bottle. Cai lets out a ragged sigh of relief as they tie the rude filters around the lower halves of their faces.

“I don't think I'd've known to do that,” whispers Daria, her face grey and drawn.

“I knew they weren't happy with yesterday but…” Amina can't seem to finish the thought, can't express her horror.

“I should have realised when I saw the shape of the mountain,” murmurs Adolphus as the cameras pull back to show the whole island from within the dust cloud. Half of the summit is gone and lava is spreading slowly but surely down that side of the volcano.

“Oh, and there goes the first tribute,” beams Templesmith. “Let's go take a look.”

  
  


“Was that a cannon?” she asks, wild with fear. Gaspar nods, weariness coming off him in waves. “Ready to run again?” He nods and levers himself upright. They take a diagonal path, running from the lava and towards the beach, and run as hard as their legs will carry them. She keeps throwing glances over her shoulder to check the the lava's progress and, on one of those glances, she spots Viatrix running like a fox before the hounds. Her fury at Renatus' murder and a subconscious awareness that the Gamemakers prefer to see tributes die at each other's hands overwhelm her terror and common sense, she stops in her tracks. She sends a knife flying into the other girl's thigh but Viatrix only pauses long enough to pull the knife out and then she's running again, hurtling straight towards her attacker. Iristina notices that the other girl has lost her bow and knows she needs to bring her down from afar. She flings a second blade that her target ducks, so she follows it up with a third and this one catches the little girl in the gut. Viatrix staggers, looks down at the knife protruding from her body and falls backwards into the lava stream. At its intrusion into her own little scene, Iristina is reminded of the reason she was running. She turns and hares after Gaspar's retreating figure. She forces herself to glance back when she realises that she should have heard the cannon but still hasn't. With a fourth blade in her hand, she turns and sees a figure covered in lava fighting to get to its hands and knees. She screams and redoubles her pace.

“I thought I'd lost you,” pants out her district-partner once they burst out onto the beach but she crashes past him into the water.

“She– she– she–“ She keeps stuttering until Gaspar drags her out of the sea and shows her that the lava has stopped. In fact, within an hour of the eruption, the lava has cooled and hardened to rock.

  
  


“I told you that girl was a fighter!” guffaws Flickerman, clapping his co-anchor on the shoulder after the replay of Viatrix's death has ended.

“I like _her_ ,” leers Meyrick, raising his mid-morning cocktail to his lips. “Have you had her?” Cai splutters, spitting most of his mouthful back into the glass.

“She's a tribute,” he squawks.

“Yes,” hums the older man in amusement. “Your tribute. And she's hardly a child.”

“I suppose not,” answers Cai, injecting his voice with the disgust he feels for this man, trying to fool the other into believing that the very idea repulses him.

“I bet she's feisty in the sack – better than Daria Ashlen, I don't doubt.”

“Barven. Daria Barven,” he corrects, automatically. He's been distracted by the image of Calidia that is currently filling the screens. “Wait. You had Daria?” Meyrick's lips draw back in a feral grin.

“I've had _all_ the ladies.”

“Wow. I always thought Daria and Adolphus… Well, how was she?” The older man laughs and claps him on the shoulder.

“You really _are_ as depraved as I am.” Meyrick winks at him. “Want another drink?”

“No, thanks; I'm barely half-way through this one. And I'm not depraved, I've just had more than my fair share of tail.”

“Now, that's the truth!” laughs his host. “I never will know how a guy like you gets so many women falling all over you.”

“It's my sparkling personality,” he replies, dryly, prompting another laugh from the older man. “So, Daria…” Meyrick is thoroughly derailed and spends a full twenty minutes recounting his night with Daria, without mentioning Ares again. When he also leaves with the price of a fruit cake in his pocket, Cai counts it as a good day's work and decides to join Haymitch in the Blue Merlin, after he's sent his girl the provisions.

  
  


They're both lying, exhausted, in the lie of a boulder, when the parachute arrives.

“I'll get it,” she groans, pushing herself onto her elbows, and Gaspar doesn't even nod, only grunts. When she opens it, she breaks into a wheezy laugh.

“What is it?” moans her district-partner, his tone devoid of any real interest.

“It's a basket,” she answers, still chuckling in incredulity at their mentors' latest gift. “There's Capitol bread and… fine cheese and… _wine_. They've sent us _wine_ , Gaspar!” She breaks into more wheezy laughter. He sits up at that and joins her in poking through the basket. As well as the wine, the cheese and the bread, there was also finely cut pork and chocolates.

“Looks like we have fans,” he comments before letting out his own gust of incredulous laughter.

“But this stuff is useless,” she points out, dropping her voice. “It's nice but it won't last any time. It's like they're just flaunting how much money they have.”

“Yeah,” he grins and she's struck again by how very handsome he is. “Maybe they have enough money to send us food for every meal. I mean, with only four of us left, it can't be too long now.”

“Three,” she corrects, pulling the remaining set of camping cutlery from the bottom pocket of his rucksack.

“Three? You killed someone when you stopped, didn't you?” She nods, still concentrating on assembling the sandwiches. “What did you _do_?”

“I killed Viatrix,” she snaps, not wanting to think about that figure rising up under the lava.

“Excellent!” he shouts and punches the air. “So, it's just you, me and Calidia. She ain't gonna know what hit her and she's gonna be too bloody frightened to attack. So, we can sleep tonight, go and find her tomorrow, and then it will all be over.” He's grinning at her but all she can think of is Reaping Day, the two of them on that revolting sofa and Gaspar asking her to kill him.

 


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own any of the Hunger Games characters (sigh), places or objects.  
> Everything you recognise from the original trilogy belongs to Suzanne Collins; anything that reminds you of the films probably belongs to the people who made those; and there are probably quotes and quirks borrowed from the myriad books I have read.

The wine – along with the fine food and high spirits and exhaustion – makes them giddy and they end up dancing next to the fire. They keep falling over and breaking into fresh peels of laughter as they try to dance with ghosts in a dance designed for eight people, not two. Part of her mind – the part that does the scheming – knows their blatant disregard for secrecy must be driving the surviving Career crazy and she derives yet greater pleasure from the thought of the tribute huddled up somewhere, trying to stay warm, and listening to them. They're spinning with their arms around each other's waist, when the anthem begins to play. The shock has them staggering sideways and cackling. They look up into the sky, their arms still around each, and watch Proc's face appear. Gaspar lets out a cheer but she isn't quite as pleased but there's no time to reflect on that as Viatrix – who was only 13, Iristina reminds herself – is hanging there in the sky and _her_ district-partner is punching her on the shoulder. She can't help but wonder what this scene would be like if it was Renatus stood beside her, if Gaspar had died… she can hardly believe that it's been four days already since his death. She also can't keep herself from speculating about tomorrow.

“Do you want to guard first or shall I?” she asks Gaspar, once Winnow's face has faded from the sky, and he turns to stare at her.

“You don't think she'd try anything, d'ya?”

“I would. If I was the one by myself and she and Proc had survived, I'd try to kill them in their sleep. And she's just as good a… strategy-er as me,” she answers, dredging up a smile and the term he had invented the morning after her fever. Unconsciously, her finger-tips fly up to the bundle of scar tissue at her temple.

“Does it hurt?” he asks with a sour twist to his lips. She shakes her head, gently.

“No. It's just… it reminds me how close I came to dying and how Renatus looked after me and that morning.” Her face splits into a broad grin but he doesn't smile back at her.

“Y'know, if you get outta here, they'll get rid of it.”

“I hope not,” she answers with innocent pride. “I'd like to have one reminder of my time here.”

“You're crazy,” he tells her, grinning and shaking his head. “And I'm taking first watch. So, you pull out that sodden sleeping-bag and get some sleep.”

“It's not _still_ sodden,” she complains, good-naturedly. However, she pulls out the spare sleeping-bag – the one they haven't used since its drenching during her fight with the girl from 12 – and spreads it out on the small hill behind their boulder.

“Don't want to sleep next to me?” laughs Gaspar, looking up at her from the beach.

“Don't want to sleep on sand and risk getting wet all over again at high-tide.” It's true enough but so is the reason he gave. She cannot shake the sense that he's been manipulating her, that he intends to be the one who walks out of the arena, and she's just given him the idea of killing each other in their sleep, so she lies down with the knife-belt strapped on and a blade in each hand.

  
  


The sound of a twig breaking under his boot wakes her and she jerks up, ready to kill him but he's just grinning at her, leaning on his spear like a walking-stick.

“Paranoid, much. I'm just coming to kick you out of the sleeping-bag; it's time for you to take on the watch.” She gives him a sheepish smile.

“Sorry, I guess it's being this close to the end.” He nods, appearing as convinced as she does sincere.

“You were right. Tide's come in. Can't sit any lower than the boulder.” It's her turn to nod. They swap places and she walks out onto the boulder with the spear in her hand. She can only imagine what impression the tableau will have on Calidia, a lone girl without the equipment she's been trained to use to survive. She wonders if the dreadful cold that is cutting through her will kill the other girl before they get to her. And what about Gaspar? Should she go and kill him now? Practically, yes. However, she does not want to be remembered as the victor who killed her district-partner, ally and fellow-volunteer in his sleep. If, after they've killed Calidia, he kneels down and asks her to kill him, no-one can blame her. If he reneges on their deal and she kills, all well and good. But to kill him in his sleep? No, that no-one could forgive and she wants the people of District 9 to forgive her for killing their home-town hero.

_I &G_

“Why do they always have to start at dawn?” complains Amina, shuffling into the sitting-room in a lurid green dressing-gown with a cup of coffee in hand. “Why can't they wait for a more civilised hour?”

“They don't exactly have much else to do,” bites out Cai. It's been so long since they had a tribute survive the initial bloodbath that he's forgotten how grating she is. Now, however, he's having flash-backs to the year Daria won and how close he had come to strangling the woman. “Think of it this way, our victor might be back by lunch-time.”

“What makes you think it'll be _our_ victor?” sneers the older woman.

“That wee girl be in no shape to fight 'im an' 'er,” points out Gaius, sagely.

“Yeah,” puts in Daria. “Look at the betting, Amina. Calidia's a distinct third; it's just a question of which of our tributes will win.”

“Oh, I wish I knew what they said to each other that first day,” whines Siprian, fidgeting. It's the first day of the Games when he's made it out of bed before noon but then all bets are off as to how long it will last. Everyone knows that Day 11 will be the last.

“As you can see, our erstwhile favourite is already up and checking her weapons,” announces Templesmith, his tone one of thinly veiled fatigue. They can, indeed, see Calidia – who has spent the night in a hollow in the rhyolite – cleaning the blade of her laughably petite dagger and checking the thong of her whip for damage. “Now, let's check in with our two under-dogs.” The screen switches to a shot of the two tributes from District 9 sitting on their boulder and sharing breakfast.

“So, what's the plan, oh strategy-er?” asks Gaspar, his tone playful. She groans and leans into him.

“I dunno if I can be bothered to hunt her down. How about we just sit here and let her come to us? Means we'd have all our strength and she'd be the one tried from traipsing through the island.”

“True… but it's cold. If we just sit here, our muscles will seize up and she'll have the element of surprise.”

“Damn you, Gaspar!” she shouts, melodramatically. “You couldn't just let me rest, could you?” He laughs and she joins in before pushing herself to her feet. They wash their hands in the sea, which is still lapping at their boulder, and then pull on their packs. “If I win this thing, I'm going to come back here one day and I'll leave some kind of gift on this boulder in memory of you. What would you like?” The pair walk away from the camera, proposing increasingly ridiculous presents to leave in the arena in memory of the other.

“Well, it seems they're in good spirits,” comments Templesmith, once the screens have returned to a shot of the studio.”

“So, who do you think will win, Claudius?” asks Flickerman, beaming.

“It's hard to say. I mean, I've always liked Calidia for the victor's coronet. Perhaps she will surprise us all.”

“I doubt that's likely. There are two of them and she's not eaten for more than a day,” points out his co-anchor.

“That is true,” concedes Templesmith. “Well, we all know who you want to win but do you think she'll be able to kill her district-partner?”

“I don't know. She might be too tender-hearted.” Cai and Amina both snort at the exact same moment, proving that there is at least one thing upon which they still agree.

_I &G_

Tracking down Calidia proves much more difficult than either of them had imagined. The island – with which they had become very familiar – has been irrevocably altered by the crystallised lava, which shows absolutely no marks.  
"Obviously, she ain't so anxious to be caught," comments Gaspar, after a few hours.  
"That... or she finds... the new terrain... as confusing... as I do. Gi'e us... the wa'er," she pants, holding out a hand to him. He slaps the lukewarm bottle into her hand and then pushes his sweat-drenched fringe out of his eyes, while she chugs down three mouthfuls of the tepid water before restoppering the bottle. “You'd think with the eruption yesterday and there being only three of us, they could let up with the heat.”

“If you die, I'll leave you a bottle of water on the boulder, shall I?” he suggests, nudging her shoulder with his.

“Alright, alright,” she grumbles. “You can't tell me you're enjoying this heat, though.”

“No,” he concedes. “And I like this not finding her even less.”

“Agreed,” nods Iristina. “Do you want to split up?”

  
  


“No,” hisses Cai and Haymitch chuckles.

“She'll be alright, mate. She could take that girl without a weapon between them and she got more'n enough to share.”

“I doubt Calidia'd give her the chance to use them.” Cai takes a deep swallow from the whiskey bottle, his eyes fixed on the Career. The current view is coming from a camera situated behind Calidia, giving a clear shot of her, the trees behind which she is hiding and his two charges beyond them. However, they must be using a microphone feed from much closer to Gaspar and Ares as their words are all too clear.

“She don't have a choice in the matter,” his friend assures him, staunchly. “Calidia'll have to get in close to use that piddly dagger of hers.” Cai has to concede the sense of that, although not the dagger. He wishes he could ask her mentor what the girl was thinking of to choose a weapon like that.

“Sure,” says Gaspar but his tone is a little strange. Cai hasn't taken his eyes off the screen but he's sure something must have happened.

  
  


She had heard the rustle of movement too, so she answers his wink with a grin.

“Right. So, I'll just head through that thicket of trees – I think that sorta hill might be that way – and you can–“

“I'll go that way.” He points to the opposite side of their current trajectory to that which she had chosen. “I think there might be a river that way and we be needing more water, way you're drinking it.”

“Hey!” she protests, laughingly. “Well, if I can't find the hill or if I do and I see her, I'll come find you at the river. Otherwise, you come find me once you're done, alright?” He grumbles at being forced to climb the hill all the way from the riverbed but he goes. Iristina is only just into the trees when she stops and silently turns to watch the clearing they've just left, the clearing which wasn't there before the eruption. She has to give Calidia credit for caution as she waits a quarter of an hour before coming into the clearing and, when she does at last show herself, she's somersaulting. Iristina has to admit herself impressed; if she had been waiting to throw a knife as soon as Calidia appeared, the other girl would have thwarted her. However, she had not been that obvious. The hilt of a knife is resting in the palm of her throwing-arm but she's waiting to see which of them the Career will choose to kill first. They all know the cannon from one death will warn the final target. On the whole, she would probably go for– Yes, Calidia is making her way stealthily towards Gaspar's fictional riverbed. Flying knives can be dodged but using a whip on a boy who fights with a spear or axe needs the element of surprise and the suggestion that he won't have a weapon in his hand. She doesn't follow the other girl but, instead, circles around to meet her, moving through the trees with the stealth of a cat. She hears a feral growl that certainly could not have come from Gaspar and throws caution to the wind, running across the twig-strewn ground without a care for the noise she's making. When she sees them, however, she comes to a dead halt. Gaspar is down on one knee with his spear thrusting upwards through Calidia's chest. She looks like a glorious tiger – beautiful and terrible even at the moment of death. Then, as Iristina watches, he shakes the other girl free of his spear and straightens up to face her.

“We needa get outta the way, so they can take there body.” She nods and they walk downhill, maintaining their distance. They stop when they reach another clearing created by the lava stream, one on either side of the glittering rock. She waits for the sound of the cannon to die away before speaking, knowing that this moment will be of up-most importance for posterity.

“Now what?” she asks, cursing herself for not formulating a more elegant epithet. Gaspar's lips twitch up into a smirk, the same smirk he had worn every time he had her cornered as a child.

“Now… I kill you, Miss Emmer. What did you–?“ His words die as her thrown knife sticks in his gut but her aim was off and she hasn't hit anything vital enough to kill him. Annoyed, she comes at him across the volcanic rock and knocks his spear aside, slicing the wrist that holds it, before slithering around him to press the serrated edge up under his chin.

“I told you that my compassion wouldn't save you,” she whispers into his perfectly formed ear before slitting his throat. She hopes that his mother is watching. And Krill. And Amina Heslot. Because she is no longer the Urchin Girl – unwanted by all but the most desperate of men – or the Bear Girl – desired for her unwomanly notoriety – or the Reaped Girl. Now, she is a victor; now, she is beloved by millions.

 


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own any of the Hunger Games characters (sigh), places or objects.  
> Everything you recognise from the original trilogy belongs to Suzanne Collins; anything that reminds you of the films probably belongs to the people who made those; and there are probably quotes and quirks borrowed from the myriad books I have read.

She's asleep when the hovercraft lands on the Training Centre roof and an attendant has to wake her. She smiles up at the young man as she waits for her eyes to refocus.

“Thank you,” she whispers, her tongue sensually caressing her top lip. The attendant licks his lips, nervously, and she tosses him a wink and a smirk as she stands up. Siprian catches for her when she staggers after the current in the ladder releases her. “I'm fine, Rian. I'm just very… _very_ tired and I need water. Didn't have enough water and so hot…” He's still holding her and she lets her head rest against his shoulder. “Don't let them take my scars. I'm a… I'm a warrior. I want everyone to…” She gestures feebly at the side of her head with the bundle of scar tissue.

“Oh, let's get you inside,” he hums and she nods as best she can. She never can remember the journey from the roof to the bedroom with the lilac walls. Her prep team are there, waiting for her.

“Not them,” she growls.

“Poor girl doesn't know what she's saying,” twitters Philo.

“Siprian,” she says in a firmer voice than she's used since leaving the arena. “If you don't get rid of them, I might just have to kill them.” The words could be taken as a joke but her tone gives the lie to that assumption. “Find me a prep team that knows what they're doing or I _will_ murder them.” The escort swallows hard and looks her straight in the eye.

“Oh, get out, get out!” he trills, waving the clashing trio away and attempting to laugh. “I'll send an Avox with something to drink–“

“Watered wine would be fantastic,” she comments, dropping onto the edge of the bed.

“Oh, right! Yes, of course! I'll go get… one of the other teams. I think Calidia's might still–“

“That would be _perfect_ , Rian,” she assures him, her voice low and sultry. He bobs a bow and scuttles out behind the dismissed prep team. She strips off the revolting, standard-issue outfit she's being wearing for over a week and then lays herself down on top of the bedclothes. When the Avox comes in with a pint-glass of pink liquid, his eyes go wide at the sight of her but she barely registers his shock. All she cares about is the glass on his tray and she comes to retrieve it. She notices that he's staring fixedly at the wall behind her and she chuckles, softly. “It's nothing that the whole of Panem hasn't seen before.” She picks up the glass and begins to take very small sips. When he's still stood there – still staring determinedly past her – after several minutes, she recollects herself. “You can go. Oh! Can you take… _those_ with you?” He looks down at the discarded clothing and nods before tucking his tray under one arm. He crouches down, scoops up the rags and leaves with as much speed as dignity allows.

  
  


When Siprian opens the door half an hour later, she has finished the watered wine and is asleep.

“Oh, uh, Ares. Sorry, we'll–“

“Rian,” she groans, opening her eyes. “I've been awake from the moment you walked through the door. I just cannae be a-bothered ta move.”

“Are you alright, child?” asks one of the trio behind Siprian. Her voice is deep and plummy, pleasantly reminiscent of the wine she shared with Gaspar last night. Iristina's answering chuckle rumbles deep in her throat.

“I've spent almost two weeks running on adrenaline in extreme temperatures with too little to drink. No, I'm not alright.” The woman – dressed in a skirt suit of deep purple velvet that appeals to Iristina's taste – crosses swiftly to her bedside and sits down next to her. The girl closes her eyes and breathes in deeply; this woman does not smell of beer but soap and flowers. “Who are you?” she asks with a simple smile. This woman with her good suit, clean scent and modicum of facial alterations puts her in mind of the mayor's sister – the sort of woman she's always wanted to be, the sort of mother she's always wanted to have. She shakes her head to try to clear it of this fog of fancies and then pushes herself up into a sitting position.

“My name is Clodia,” smiles the violet lips in the pale face, surrounded by maroon curls, floating above the plum velvet and… She feels herself crash back down onto the pillow and she can hear voices and see purple, blue, red and green figures move around the room. However, the physical strain of being in the arena has finally caught up with her and she no longer has the energy to reach the outside world. Feeling herself to be in good hands, she lets go of consciousness and allows oblivion to claim her.

_I_

She jerks up with a sob and crams a fist into her mouth in a futile attempt to keep the tears back. She had hoped that the arena would fill her with worse night terrors than these. Surely, Viatrix trying to rise up from under the lava is worse than some hog slapping her ass while his prick is inside it? Fighting Koralia was definitely scarier, she tells herself. To her surprise and mild annoyance, cataloguing the atrocities of the arena in her mind, actually calms her. Once she is calm enough to take in her surroundings, she notices a pile of clothing at the foot of the bed. She reaches for it but stops short when she notices the hand is unmarked, apart from the indents from her teeth. Her other hand flies to her left temple and she is re-assured to feel the bundle of scars under her finger-tips. So, they've heeded her wishes; she will carry one physical reminder of her Games with her forever. She smiles to herself and then tugs the clothes towards her. It's a fresh set of that same standard-issue outfit she wore throughout the Hunger Games. With a sigh, Iristina drags herself from bed – mildly surprised to find her legs steadier than the morning after her fever – and dresses in the dismal clothing. Once fully clothed, she walks over to the point where she vaguely remembers the door being. She's been waiting only a few moments when the section of wall to her left slides open. Smiling at her error, she puts her head out the door and looks both ways. When she sees Siprian and the victors of District 9 – her fellow victors, she reminds herself – her self-deprecating smile blossoms into a full-face grin and starts walking towards them.

“You were terrific!” bubbles Daria, pulling her into a hug.

“Very well done,” adds Adolphus, clapping the girl on the back.

“Thank you,” she gasps out, tears threatening her once more.

“You did well, girl,” offers Amina, her face pinched. Iristina straightens her shoulders and holds out a hand which the older woman takes. She's taken completely off-guard when Gaius hugs her from behind, lifting her off the ground. He swings her through 180 degrees, while she giggles, and then sets her down with a slight shove towards the man standing there.

“Cai.” She freezes and the laughter dies from her face.

“Ares,” he answers with a poor attempt at a smile. Internally, she's swearing up a storm; she's been so focussed on getting out of that bloody arena alive and starting her myth that she hasn't considered how to handle her pre-existing Capitol lovers. He steps towards her and she can see he's aiming for a kiss. Wincing in sympathy, she closes the distance between them and folds him into a tight hug. He still plants a kiss on her neck and a wave of warmth floods through her.

“I've missed you,” she whispers against his ear, only just realising it.

“Ares,” purrs another voice and she pulls away from Cai and looks past Pyrrhus to see Flickerman's beaming gold visage.

“ _Caesar._ ” She drags his name out with a susurrous edge and relaxes her posture, so that her hips swing free. She's more than a little annoyed to see that his midnight-blue suit has survived their last encounter with no structural damage. He holds out a hand to her, which she takes, and pulls her to him. She forces a laugh, which he soon silences with a possessive kiss. “I have to go get ready. I have a date with the whole of Panem.” She pushes him away gently, a triumphant smile on her lips, and he laughs.

“I, too, have to get ready for my close-up. Do you think the victor of the Hunger Games will be impressed?”

“No,” she answers and the moment of truth, however fleeting, feels wonderful. “You're wearing _far_ too many clothes.” He laughs again, kisses her hand and departs. As soon as he's turned his back, she shivers and wipes her hand on her trousers. She does not, however, have the chance to see whether Cai got her message as Pyrrhus is pulling her away towards the elevator. To her surprise, they travel up to the Training Centre; she had thought they were on a special victor's floor but, apparently, she's been mistaken. He leads her across to the tribute elevator, their echoing footsteps sending a shiver up her spine. Although she knows, logically, that she's out of the arena and safe from the other tributes, she doesn't feel comfortable being so exposed and in the company of a fool she can't trust to even dress her correctly. She winces as an after-image of the little boy from District 8 pops into her mind as they enter the elevator and resolutely turns to make conversation with her stylist. “So, what are they saying about the Games in the Capitol?”

“I hear… people are not… very happy…”

“Why not?” she queries, once she's sure that he's actually finished talking.

“Because… how short… the Games were.”

“Well, I apologise for not taking longer about it,” she drawls and an incongruously angelic smile appears on Pyrrhus' face.

“They don't… blame… _you_. There are… lot of whispers… the Gamemakers… should never… have exploded… the volcano… _They_ say… the Gamemakers only… did it… to show off.” Despite the limited amount of gossip that she has gleaned from her stylist, the exchange finishes just as the doors open onto the familiar amber and black décor of the ninth floor. Her new prep team are hovering in the entrance to the dining area but Pyrrhus beckons them over. “Clodia… Livius… Atia.” The dignified lady in purple velvet is the first to come forward and greet her; next is a man with hair styled the same way as Pyrrhus', who is dressed in all the colours of sunset and looks good in them; finally, there's a wisp of a girl with an improbably small waist and disproportionate chest wearing an almost translucent yellow dress. After their effusive greetings, they pull her up to the dining table. Once there, Livius takes it upon himself to fill her plate and she can't find it within herself to argue. She doesn't even have the patience to ask Pyrrhus what sort of an atrocity he's dreamed up for her interview.

  
  


“I see they left the scars from that rock when they did the full body polish on you,” burbles Atia as they strip Iristina.

“Yes, I wanted them to leave it.”

“Oh, I _know_! I was at Whisgars with Junius and Venia and _everyone_. And, when you said all that about Renatus and almost dying and _everything_ , hot damn but Junius got down and _proposed_ to Venia. It was _so_ romantic!” Iristina smiles; she feels like she's sinking into the fabric of the Capitol, a warm sea of gossip and fashion. The three move around her in an effortless choreography of cleansing, accentuating and concealing. They tend to every crevice of her body – both visible and, hopefully, hidden – with the deft dexterity that the previous trio lacked. When Pyrrhus hangs up her dress for the evening, she's speechless with horror. It's strapless, has a cinched waist and hugs her hips – all of which is fine and fashionable – but the padded breast-coverings have four ruffles a-piece and the floor-length skirt looks like a fish-tail.

“Um… err… Clodia!” she squeaks out.

“You have _got_ to be kidding me! She's not the queen of District _Four_ ,” booms the elegant lady in the purple suit.

“We could cut away the skirt,” begins Livius, hesitantly.

“But… the, uh…” Iristina is gesturing, helplessly, at the dress' bust.

“Black always goes well with gold,” comments the girlish figure in yellow. “We could cut some circles out of black silk…”

“And a belt,” suggests the human sunset.

“But… _this_ is… my design,” complains Pyrrhus, vaguely.

“And it's terrible!” declaims Clodia. “How they ever let you past District 12, I will _never_ know. Now, get out!” She and Livius chase the stylist out, while Atia takes a pair of nail-scissors to the stitching that attaches the hideous skirt. Iristina feels a deep and lasting affection forming for these three.

 


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own any of the Hunger Games characters (sigh), places or objects.  
> Everything you recognise from the original trilogy belongs to Suzanne Collins; anything that reminds you of the films probably belongs to the people who made those; and there are probably quotes and quirks borrowed from the myriad books I have read.

She waits under the stage, delighted with her dress and eager to see the crowd, alone. Pyrrhus had not even accompanied her as far as the metal plate which will elevate her to the stage. Her prep team, however, position her on the plate and put the finishing touches to her hair and make-up before flitting off to dress themselves. The anthem sounds and a rush of pure, exhilarated joy floods through her. She can't quite believe that she's actually here – that she's made it out of the arena alive and Caesar Flickerman, who is also her lover, is announcing her entourage. When the plate beneath her feet begins to move, she tenses up with excitement but then the memory of the last time she was on a rising metal plate hits her and the flashing cameras remind her of the explosion that took that little girl's head off. She stiffens her flagging smile, gives the audience an aloof little wave and then approaches Caesar. He's giving her a grandiose welcome and then she does the one thing that will drive the Capitol wild: she kisses him. It looks easy, unrehearsed and could pass for a first kiss because of how surprised he is. She slides up to him, the soles of her platform heels moving easily across the stage, and slips her hand inside his jacket to bring herself to a stop and causing him to stumble into her. Then, she tilts her head up and their lips crash together as though by accident. The audience bursts into a storm of cheers, applause and stamping. She answers the adulation with a shy grin, leaning against his cosmetically sculpted chest for support.

“Well, that's a pleasant way to start the night,” chuckles Caesar, once the noise has dropped enough for him to get a word in edgewise. The crowd laugh, indulgently, and she shrinks into him, blushing and smiling, shyly. “Come, now, dear. You just won the Hunger Games.”

“Yes,” she answers in a stage-whisper. “But then I couldn't _see_ the audience.” That draws another laugh and Caesar takes the opportunity to escort her to the victor’s chair. Once she's seated, Iristina raises her eyes to his and squeezes the hand with which he assisted her into the chair. While she is completely aware of their audience and the impression they are making, the master-of-ceremonies seems to have forgotten himself. His mouth has dropped open slightly and he is tilting towards her, as though he would kiss her again. “Caesar… we do still have a show…” she reminds him with a coy smile, inwardly crowing at her power over this pompous fool. As he returns to his seat and makes an amusing segue, she prepares herself to sit stoically through the deaths of all those little children and to exult at the deaths of her foes. She is interested to see what sort of narrative the editors have decided to put across. The only thing she knows for certain is that they can't use the one she and Gaspar wrote for them as that soured in the end. Her narrative has been unwritten and she is free to be more herself than she ever hoped possible.

"Ladies and gentlemen, let the sixty-ninth Hunger Games begin!" announces the resonant voice of Claudius Templesmith. They begin with the slow-motion, close-up footage of Coriolana falling off her launch-pad and her head being blown up. Iristina is careful to keep her face mask-like, not letting one iota of the howling horrified grief bubble to the surface. The Career Pack's kills come thick and fast – Jossa, Seedy, Lerb, Servitus and Mukhbaza. They pause to show Calidia strangling Servitus but it is Mukhbaza's murder that has everyone spell-bound. Proc had wrapped both hands around the boy's head, thumbs in his eyes, and smashed it to a pulp against the rock below. Iristina watches, jaw clenched, as the young man rises up with red hands and heads for the Cornucopia. They show Gaspar colliding with Lois and the pair of them falling to the ground with his hands around her throat. Then, there's the recap of Canus' death and Zeke's, for which she forces a smile, and Lois finally expiring and them collecting supplies. And she realises that three hours of this is going to be direly boring, so she allows herself to sink into a waking doze. She notes that the editors are playing up the idea of her and Calidia as leaders of opposing factions and ultimate enemies. She almost feels apologetic for not killing the girl herself. Of course, if she had, she might not have had the energy or strength to take down Gaspar and then they might be telling a very different story for a very different victor.

“…and it looks as though a hunt is beginning,” says Flickerman's recorded voice, rousing her. Her heart thuds hard, once, and then begins beating fit to burst out of her chest because the screen is filled with the faces of two wide-eyed, terrified children. It's the two children who stood between her and Winnow on that very first day and the boy has floppy sandy hair that keeps falling into his eyes, hair that she had impulsively swept aside in the elevator after their interviews. She had managed to keep from speculating about Darnell's fate while in the arena but now she's going to have to watch it with a live audience watching her re-actions. She tries to focus on the editing techniques as the five Career tributes crash through the foliage after the two children but it's futile; all she can see is two pairs of terror-filled eyes. They show Tadia putting her blow-gun to her lips and the girl from District 10 falling onto her hands and knees.

“Bindy!” wails her ally, turning back.

“Run!” she yells at him and Iristina can see every line of her expression as the camera is somewhere in the arena floor, shooting up at her. In another moment, she understands why they chose that angle as Tadia appears behind the girl and slits her throat with that wicked-looking sickle. She sets her face into an expression of grim triumph; after all, Bindy had to die for her to be sitting here, although the girl was only 14. Then, they cut to a shot of Proc holding Darnell off the ground.

“Let's have a little fun with him,” guffaws the brute. They play the next sequence on fast-forward with no sound and only return to normal speed once the little boy is stripped bare and bound to a tree branch by his ankles. She has to cram a fist into her mouth to stop herself crying out. She doesn't care if they broadcast this – after all, she and Gaspar did volunteer in order to protect the little kids of their district – because all she cares about is the terrified little boy with the floppy hair who Proc is approaching with an evil-looking knife. He flips it over and digs the point into the gap between Darnell's shoulder and collar-bone. He's obviously unused to cutting skin as it takes him several harsh jerks to open an incision down to the boy's sternum. She can't control the flood of anger that sweeps through her and causes her jaw to clench and her hands to grip the armrests until her knuckles go white. Proc continues to cut him and Darnell screams, while the other Careers look on with expressions ranging from delighted to disgusted. They play out every agonised moment of Darnell's death and she can feel tears and bile and rage welling within her. She's relieved when they cut to her fight with Koralia, which she relives with a savage pleasure she did not feel at the time. When she's sure that the rage and grief aren't going to overwhelm her, she allows her attention to drift again.

  
  


The highlights show drags on. She sees Renatus taking off the leg of the girl from 4 and then Viatrix hitting her with an arrow. It annoys her to learn that Bess was Renatus and Viatrix's victim, she had thought of her as hers and Renatus'; her death had been a bond they shared and Viatrix has taken even that from her. Next, Calidia kills the girl from District 3 – a whip wrapping around her leg, the girl from 1 reeling her victim in and then gutting her with a dagger. Then, they're showing her and Renatus stumbling into that dusty grove and her heart leaps into her throat. A sense of unreality settles over her as though the scene being played out on the screen has nothing to do with her. It is only when an arrow-tip appears in the foreground that she realises they're watching from Viatrix's point-of-view and then it gets a thousand times worse. A red trajectory line appears between the tip of the arrow and the shoulder of her own image.

“She was aiming for me,” she whispers to herself and it feels like the world is falling in on her. Renatus' death was her fault, not Viatrix's; if she hadn't dropped to the ground, she would have received a flesh-wound and Renatus would have lived. She sits there, completely dazed with shock, as they play out the aftermath of his death. She pays barely any attention to Glaucus murdering Tadia in her sleep and Proc killing him in retaliation. She doesn't even wonder why he did it. All she can think about is that red line appearing, her figure dropping to the ground and the arrow following that line into Renatus' chest. It plays over and over again in her mind's eye as, on the screens, they're showing the visit to District 9. It's Krill's voice that jerks her back into the moment and causes her heart to pound with fear.

“Iristina!” he bellows as he has bellowed so many times before and, despite knowing that he can't reach her, she still jumps. She hopes the audience will see it as her being shocked by the roar of sound.

“Are you are on morphling?” asks an unseen correspondent.

“How else am I meant to watch she in them Hunger Games?!"

“Well, I think that answers all our questions." The next thing they show is Krill being arrested and she struggles to keep herself from laughing; not only has she escaped him, she's stopped him from ruining another orphaned girl. Although, she has to concede, she was ruined long before he got hold of her. She can't watch as they show Winnow's final day and actually closes her eyes when Proc grabs hold of her friend. That's the last painful moment and she can watch the rest of the highlights with feelings of triumph, vindication and exhilaration. She takes malicious pleasure in watching Proc failing to out-run the slow-moving lava; she relishes Viatrix death all the more this time as she isn't running for her life and she knows the girl was aiming for her; and the trap for Calidia looks much better watching it from above, than it had felt being hidden in that clump of trees.

“We needa get outta the way, so they can take there body,” says Gaspar again and she finds herself leaning forward in her seat. She wants to relish this moment all over again, the moment when she finished one of her childhood torments forever. She watches with a triumphant smile as she slithers around the boy and slits his throat. Then, it's over and Caesar Flickerman is speaking to the audience but she doesn't care. She's won, she's free of Krill, free of Gaspar. She has escaped her history and written herself a new legacy.

 


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own any of the Hunger Games characters (sigh), places or objects.  
> Everything you recognise from the original trilogy belongs to Suzanne Collins; anything that reminds you of the films probably belongs to the people who made those; and there are probably quotes and quirks borrowed from the myriad books I have read.

The anthem plays and she rises to her feet, a smile of utter rapture on her face as President Snow approaches. His smile matches hers for wattage but, as he places the crown on her brow, she can smell the metallic tang of blood, which rather takes the shine off her golden moment. However, she can see the approbation shining in his eyes and hope floods through her. Then, he's stepping away and she has to turn back to Caesar. They play up for the crowd with jokes and flirting and finish with a waltz that takes them off stage.

“Ah, ha, ha!” he crows, his hands spreading out like blossoming petals. “You were divine! Now, we just need to get you to the president’s mansion.”

“You _are_ coming with me?” she demands, reaching out and grasping one of his hands. She can't explain it but, suddenly, she's terrified of facing all those perfected faces without him.

“Try and _stop_ me!” he laughs, pulling her closer. She goes easily, sliding into his embrace and submitting to his kiss without complaint. She still needs him, especially tonight; she needs him to give her the veneer of belonging to this new society, so she forces down any feelings she might have for Cai. “Now, come along, my car is waiting for us.”

“For us?” she teases, leaning into him and giving him the benefit of her best infatuated smile. “You anticipated having my company?” He laughs, uproariously, before looking down at her as they walk towards the exit.

“I live in constant, agonising _hope_ that you will favour me with the least smile.” Now, she's laughing, too, and swatting him on the chest, unaware of Cai and the rest of her entourage lurking in the shadows at the edge of her peripheral vision. When she and Caesar burst through the rear exit, the car is waiting with its engine running and an Avox holding the door open for them. They slide in together – Caesar not taking his hands off her for an instant – and then wrap themselves around each other on the back-seat. As much as she wants to drink in every sight and sound and smell of the Capitol, she lets him fill her every sense instead. She sits in his lap without prompting, knowing he wants to take possession of her, and makes encouraging noises as he kisses her throat and runs his hands up and down her sides. In all honesty, he is far from the worst she's ever had and his kisses are far more arousing than Krill's ever were. However, nothing he does can ever compare to the pleasure of being kissed by a man from whom she expects nothing in return. In fact, in spite her best efforts, it feels like nothing can ever compare to Cai's kiss, a kiss that was not part of some tawdry exchange of services. When Caesar next captures her lips, his thumb finds her nipple and she arches into the caress. Then, the car comes to a halt and a different Avox is opening the door, so they have to pull apart but his hand is still on her breast when the first camera-flash goes off. Siprian is there to greet her – dressed in a gold tuxedo to match her dress – to draw her arm through his and take her into the Victory Banquet. He guides her through the hand-shaking and insulting praise, tells her when she can eat and what she should drink, and nudges her when she ought to thank the next well-wisher. She has just escaped the talons of a piece of mutton dressed as lamb, when she turns and sees that Cai is next in line. In the same instant, she feels Siprian's elbow in her ribs and reflexively frowns; she sees no reason she should thank him, he's her mentor and it's his job to help.

“Oh, this is Aulus Meyrick,” trills Siprian and she realises there is a man beside Cai. This is an older man with a cadaverous face and vivid, green eyes. In fact, except for his blue-and-white-striped hair and double chin, he looks just like District 9's chief notary – a man with a weak handshake and a limp prick, who had needed a ring to stay hard. “He's the one who paid for that final supper in the arena.”

“Oh, that wonderful basket?!” she gasps in feigned delight.

“Yes,” he answers with a predatory smile. “Although, Cai _told_ me that he was going to buy a fruit cake, the scallywag.” His grip on her fingers is slight, the movement of his wrist weak and his palm sweaty as he shakes her hand.

“Well, I haven't much of a sweet tooth; I'd much rather have the wine,” she simpers at him, raising her glass. Their glasses clink and she inclines her head. “Thank you for your… _generosity_ , Mr Meyrick.”

“Please, call me 'Aulus',” he implores, leaning in and brushing her cheek with puffy lips. Cai pulls him away without a second glance at her and she has to stop herself from wincing.

“I do not like that man,” she murmurs into Siprian's ear and the escort forces a laugh to cover the moment.

  
  


The night is full of such encounters, of men – and women – who feel like they've paid the whore in advance and now she has to put out. It is a role to which she is well-accustomed and boredom is her primary reaction, although there is the occasional sponsor who truly revolts her. She is more than glad, when – around 5am – Caesar steals her away to dance. Her only act of defiance during the entire night is refusing to allow the current Head Gamemaker to cut in on her second dance with her current lover. Caesar doesn't seem shocked by her behaviour, however, so she assumes that Pyrrhus was right about the man having signed his own death warrant with that volcanic eruption. After a third spin around the dance-floor, she excuses herself from Caesar and joins Siprian at the bar.

“Oh, Ares, _there_ you are!” She's a little taken aback by hearing the nickname that hasn't occurred to her since before she entered the arena but soon rallies.

“Sorry, Rian. Caesar was determined to trip the light fantastic,” she titters, leaning into him before turning to the man with whom he was speaking and holds out a hand. “Iristina Emmer. And you are?” The stranger smirks at her introduction and encloses her hand in both of his.

“Oh, this is Gratiano, Calidia's stylist.”

“Ah–bsolute pleasure, Ay–res.” As he releases her hand, she has the overwhelming desire to check it for oil as the man seems to exude the stuff but she contains herself. “Yoo–ou stole my prep team.”

“They were an _absolute_ godsend. You should've seen this _dress_ before they took it in hand. It was _hideous_!” She is a moment too late in remembering that it's Siprian beside her, not Caesar. “Oh, Rian! You know, I love you dearly but, darling, that man is incompetent.“

“Oh, you don't have to apologise to me,” the escort sniffs. “Oh, we– He and I parted company.”

“I'm sorry. I had no idea.”

“Oh… oh, well… oh, he, uh, got a promotion – because he dressed the victor – and he said, uh, that he had no further use for our… oh, arrangement.”

“Well,” she begins, treating him to her most radiant smile. “That proves just how much of a fool he is – he dropped _you_ … and tried to dress _me_ like a fish!” Gratiano bursts out laughing and Siprian manages a small smile.

“He didn't?” asks the District 1 stylist, elegantly wiping a tear from one eye.

“Yeah, he did!” she assures him with a pained smile. “Like I said, Clodia, Livius and Atia were an absolute _godsend_! I wish there were something I could do about him, though.”

“Something you could do about whom, my dear?” inquires an insidious voice from directly behind her. She spins around, reaching for a blade and only registers the prickle of fear that went up her spine once she is facing President Snow.

“My apologies,” she chortles, self-consciously releasing the handle of an imaginary knife.

“Not at all,” he answers with a smile that sends tendrils of fear out to her very finger-tips. “We cannot expect you to re-adjust all at once. The arena is a very stressful experience.”

“Yes.” She coughs, trying to clear her suddenly tight throat. “Indeed. In fact, if you'll excuse me, Mr President, I really should be getting back to bed. I need my rest.” He inclines his head and she bobs him a clumsy, little curtsey before turning away.

“Don't _forget_ to take Mr Flickerman with you,” he comments, quietly, and she whips back with her perfect masking smile in place.

“Of course! How _else_ would I return to the Training Centre?” Her smile has taken on a seductive curve and she can see genuine amusement glint in his cruel eyes.

“I look forward to meeting you after your interview.” Her hearts thuds once, heavily, within her chest and her fear is reaching fever-pitch but her smile doesn't slip for a moment, it's had too much practice.

“Until tomorrow, Mr President. Good to meet you, Mr Gratiano. I'll hope to see you at breakfast, Rian,” she adds, allowing a touch of familiarity to slip into the set of her lips. She whirls away from them and goes in search of her current lover. “We need to leave,” she hisses into Caesar's ear, once she's located him.

“Why?”

“Because, if we don't, I'm going to start stripping off your clothes right here.” Her voice is taut with trepidation and she is speaking through gritted teeth but he takes it for lust; it never ceases to amaze her what men will mistake for lust. They don't make the customary round of farewells as he leads her straight out to his waiting car, where they do begin tearing each other's clothes apart, once they are safely ensconced on the back-seat. By the time his driver drops them at the Training Centre, she's in nothing but her underwear and he's down to his trousers, which he has to hold up as she threw his belt out the window some time before. They hurry across to the bank of elevators and, as soon as the doors are shut, Caesar drops his trousers and presses her up against one of the crystal walls. When they stumble out on the ninth floor, she's relieved to find that the communal areas are empty; if she were to see Cai now, she doesn't know if she could control herself. However, they make it to her bedroom without encountering another living soul and strip off the last shreds of cloth. She sits on the end of the bed and spreads her legs for him. He's only a moment after her, covering her with his body and driving straight into her, not even bothering to check if she's ready for him. She gives a gasp of discomfort that he takes for satisfaction.

“You're so tight, so hot…” he moans and she wants to roll her eyes. Instead, she closes them so he can't see her condescension and contempt. Although he doesn't seem to need any encouragement, she pushes her hips up to match his thrusts and sporadically lets out a whimper or a moan or one of those other sounds men like to hear during sex. After all the fore-play in the car, he is soon freezing up and shooting his load deep within her. She gives a drawn-out roar and pulls him more tightly into her. He seems satisfied, which is all that matters as all she can think of is Snow's cruel eyes and the warning in his voice when he told her not to forget Caesar. She knew this was a dangerous game she was getting into but, now that the Hunger Games are over, the rules seem to have changed and she can't tell whether she'll survive.

_I_

When she wakes, only a few hours have passed but she knows, instinctively, that it's time to begin for the day. She goes to get out of the bed but Caesar catches her around the waist.

“I love you,” he murmurs against her ear and her patience snaps. She can control herself no longer and bursts out laughing, her back arching as it should have done when he was fucking her. He pushes himself up onto one elbow and frowns at her, groggily.

“That's just a line to people like us,” she snorts, bitterly, as she pushes herself into a sitting position and away from his restraining arm. “We practice clever lines in everyday conversation, honing ways to obscure what we're really thinking.” She turns to smirk down at him. “If we say 'I love you', we probably mean 'you are useful to me at the present time'.” She claps him on the shoulder and then slips out of bed, calling over her shoulder: “If you really cared anything for me, you would have made me cum. You don't love me, you love my body and how it makes _you_ feel!” She wastes no time getting into the shower, not wanting him to follow her. President Snow might want her to continue this farce of a relationship but Snow can't penalise her if it is Caesar who breaks it off because she has hurt his pride.

  
  


Her hair is still damp and she still isn't dressed when a knock comes at her bedroom door.

“Can you get that?” she calls out, thinking that answering her door will be a further insult to his pride. However, there is no answer, not even the sigh her mattress would make as he turned over. She walks out into the bedroom, still naked, and finds it deserted. She crosses to the door and debates whether to give the Avox the advantage of her full-frontal nudity but decides against it. Instead, she stands behind the door and sticks her head out, only to find it's her prep team on the other side. “I was just going to get dressed for breakfast,” she tells them, pulling the door open.

“Breakfast?!” gasps Livius. “My _dear_ , breakfast was over an hour ago.” She groans and rolls her muffled head across her aching shoulders.

“ _I_ have only been to sleep for two and a bit hours. I _definitely_ need coffee and would prefer some food, too,” she informs them, vehemently.

“You left before I did,” squeaks Atia. “How is it that you got so little sleep?” Iristina throws her a look and the older girl blushes. “For all that _time_?!”

“Well, it's hardly the shortest car-ride from the president's mansion to here,” the victor answers, shrugging into a sky-blue kimono. “Right – five minutes to grab food and coffee, then I'm all yours.” She darts out to the communal area before they can object or stop her. She finds the Barvens, Amina Heslot, Siprian and, to her surprise, Caesar all still sitting at the breakfast table. She's torn between snogging the master-of-ceremonies, to rub it in Madame Heslot's face, and snubbing him, so that she can escape this arrangement without incurring Snow's wrath. She decides that her freedom is worth more to her than sticking it to the woman, so she walks right past Caesar and helps herself from the wide array of bread products.

“There's a seat here, Ares,” offers her lover, giving her a pleasant smile. His behaviour makes her suspicious, although not as suspicious as the fact he's dressed in an immaculate midnight-blue suit.

“Sorry,” she chirps. “I have to head straight back to my dragons; they're insistent we need” – she checks the clock – “ _three_ hours to make me ready for the cameras.” She drops a kiss on his powdered forehead before turning to the escort. “Rian, _darling_ , could you mosey along for a chat once you're done here?”

“But you'll be naked!” protests Caesar, making a weak attempt to sound good-natured, and she laughs in his face.

“The _whole_ of Panem has seen me naked. I'm only wearing this in deference to her sensibilities,” she adds, gesturing at Madame Heslot, who jerks up into an even more rigid posture. “See you in three, Caesar.” She carries her plate and cup down the corridor, a malicious smile curving her lips.

  
  


Siprian turns up just as Clodia and Atia are attacking her finger- and toe-nails, respectively.

“Oh, are you alright, Ares?” he asks, hovering by the bathroom door.

“For the moment,” she answers, rapidly. “Listen to me, Rian, I have a problem: President Snow is in favour of my relationship with Caesar Flickerman.

“Oh, well, that's a good thing, isn't it? You couldn't carry on without his approbation.” She stares at him, open-mouthed, wondering if it's too late to ask Adolphus, instead.

“Siprian,” she begins, tipping her head down to glare at him in spite of Livius' hissing. “You don't seem to follow. He expects this… _arrangement_ to continue. He probably expects me to marry the man.”

“Oh, isn't that what you want?” Her jaw drops again.

“Whatever gave you _that_ idea?”

“Oh, well, you're, uh– oh, I mean– oh, Pyrrhus told me about that morning before the Games and, then, last night…”

“Siprian,” she sighs, tipping her head back into the Livius-approved position. “Yes, I've been sleeping with Caesar but–“

“You've been sleeping with Caesar Flickerman?!” squeaks the male prep-artist.

“Yes but only so he would be on my side during the Games! Have you never noticed that the tributes Caesar and Claudius like get more sponsors than the others?” She can't see Livius' expression as he's behind her but Siprian is gaping like a fish out of water.

“Oh, does he know?” the escort finally squeezes out.

“Of course not! But now you see why it would be impossible for me to continue this… this… charade, don't you?” She knows her voice is rising into hysteria but she can't help it.

“Oh, well… Oh, why are you telling _me_?”

“Because I need your help and advice,” she explains, her voice and heartbeat beginning to return to normal. “I have no idea what one has to do to make a resident of the Capitol understand that one is no longer interested in him.”

“Why don't you just end things?” suggests Clodia.

“Because I doubt that President Snow would take that kindly.” The maroon curls bob and Iristina is re-assured in her belief that she can trust these three.

“Well, my sister can never keep a man,” muses Livius, beginning to comb the now-solidified serum out of Iristina's hair. “And that's because she is the most critical woman I have ever met. Truly, she told her last boyfriend how much she disliked the alignment of his teeth at a friend's birthday party. Plain insisted that he get them surgically altered or she would break up with him.”

“Did he do it?” she asks, pleasantly scandalised.

“No! Broke up with _her_ on the spot!” Iristina leads the laughter but, underneath, her mind is working furiously. She is about to have the perfect opportunity to embarrass Caesar in front of the largest audience possible but she will have to do it subtly or it will reflect badly on her.

“Whenever I want a guy to back off,” twitters Atia. “I just ignore him and flirt with other people.”

“Oh, yes!” puts in Siprian. “I had a boyfriend who would _not_ take the hint – I mean, I even changed the locks! – so I would never speak to him in public and would flirt with all and sundry, yet he still dragged me back to his place every night. In the end, I had to ask this Peacekeeper – who I dated next – to sort him out.”

“What about you, Livius?” she teases. “Any ex-boyfriends like that?”

“I” – he gives the comb a particularly vicious tug – “have been happily _married_ for twelve years.”

“You got married when you were 8?!” she squawks and everyone chuckles, although she thinks he must really have been very young when he did get married.

“So, all you have to do is criticise him in public and flirt with every other man in sight,” declares Clodia, setting down the nail-buffer with a decisive tap. Everyone smiles and the victor begins to feel better; there might actually be a way out of this insupportable situation after all.

 

 


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own any of the Hunger Games characters (sigh), places or objects.  
> Everything you recognise from the original trilogy belongs to Suzanne Collins; anything that reminds you of the films probably belongs to the people who made those; and there are probably quotes and quirks borrowed from the myriad books I have read.

Caesar's eyes nearly pop out of his head when he sees her but she keeps her expression politely blank as her eyes pass over him and it's only as she catches sight of Cai that she allows a grin to slide onto her lips. She maintains eye-contact with the younger man as she walks towards Siprian and the Barvens.

“I _love_ your dress!” says Daria, almost drooling.

“You can have it when I'm done with this bloody interview,” simpers Iristina before embracing her mentress. When she leans in to kiss Adolphus' cheek, she's careful to brush one scantily clad nipple across his chest. Pyrrhus had said that he wanted to do sex for her tribute interview but that dress was nothing to this one. This one is a strapless confection of transparent green silk over a tube of only slightly more opaque gold silk and she is wearing nothing underneath.

“Oh, Ares!” whispers Siprian, carrying her hand to his lips. “Oh, you look… oh, _divine_.” He retains her hand in both of his as he trails his eyes up and down her barely clothed form.

“Thank you,” she answers, giving him a secretive smile. “Can we get this over with, Caesar?” In the instant of turning her attention from the escort to the master-of-ceremonies, her manner has changed from that of a siren to that of a harpy. He visibly jumps and mumbles something she can't catch before bustling over to the sofas. She turns to toss a wink at her prep team and Siprian before moving over to the professionally lit seating area. One of the camera crew – an exceptionally pretty young woman with a birth-mark over one eye that she's tried to conceal with tattoos – leads her to the same sofa that Gaspar had sprawled across after his private training session and gives her some suggestions about how to drape herself upon it. Iristina thanks her with a glowing smile and then drops her head to stare at Caesar and emits a heavy sigh.

“Right,” gulps the master-of-ceremonies before gesturing at his crew.

“5… 4… 3…” She fixes an engaging and mildly provocative smile on her face. “2… 1…”

“Welcome, ladies and gentlemen. Today, I have the _great_ pleasure of interviewing the victor of the sixty-ninth Hunger Games, Iristina Emmer. Although, you probably know her as Ares!” A pause for a wink and a gleam of Caesar's teeth. “Well, _Ares_ , I have to say: you look incredible. That dress is magical.”

“Thank you,” she beams in response, her eyes trained on the camera that is currently hovering above his head. “I wish I could return the compliment but we've all seen that suit so many times before…” She gives the camera over his shoulder a broad smile, inviting the audience to laugh with her at a piece of light teasing. The banter continues unchecked, her every comment barbed, for several minutes before they regain a semblance of professionalism.

“Well, I would like to begin by asking you about friends and enemies – you're other tributes.” She nods and pulls one knee up to her chest, which leaves the other leg bare from the mid-thigh and presents a very revealing camera angle, if the cameraman chose to lie on the floor. Caesar, if not his audience, is temporarily derailed by this act.

“Do you want to start with my friends or with my enemies?” she demands with a forced smile and a staccato intonation. He glances down at his cards before muttering:

“Winnow and Renatus.” Her smile is slightly mocking as she waits for him to formulate a question. “Ah, yes, whose decision was it to choose those two as allies?”

“Mine. Well, I let Gaspar _think_ it was his idea,” she adds with a smirk for the camera. “You know what _men_ are like!” From the grins on the faces of her entourage, she's sure that the answer will play well with the audience but Caesar is shifting uncomfortably in his seat.

“Well… I think we can all agree that they were good choices,” he grins, sliding back into his usual TV persona. “Renatus was a stone-cold killer – the way he took off Canus' head!”

“Yeah,” she whispers with the ghost of an affectionate smile. “It was like he was two different people – the killer, who only came out when we really needed him, and the sweetest boy, who I…” She places the the heel of her palm to her lips to keep herself from crying.

“Yes,” he begins in a gentler voice. “It was quite touching, the way you and he… Was that the reason you wanted him as an ally?” She shakes her head, violently, and allows her hands to drop into her lap. Before answering, Iristina straightens her posture and draws her feet under her.

“No, I… I had no feelings for Rena before he took care of me after that fight with Koralia.” Caesar nods in comprehension and then prompts her to walk the audience through that fight and her growing feelings for Renatus and her deepening bond with Winnow and her tempestuous relationship with Gaspar.

“So, tell me,” begins Caesar, leaning towards her. “How did you feel when Gaspar turned on you?” She has been rehearsing for this interview – away from the eyes of her prep team, her mentors and her lover – and her face twists into a contortion of pain without any conscious prompting.

“Betrayed,” she states, baldly, her voice steeped in pain. “And used. I hate–“ Now, her lips twitch up into a forced smile. “I am afraid Gaspar and I lied to you, Caesar. We didn't make a pact to volunteer.” He throws back his head and laughs.

"I think we had all guessed that." She grins, sheepishly. “So, how _did_ it happen?”

“I had no idea he was going to volunteer until he did it. It was true that we had known each other for years and we _did_ save those kids from the fire at the school like we said we did but we weren't best friends and I never told him that I intended to volunteer. So, when he stepped forward and volunteered… I was gob-smacked.” She allows her lips to twist sideways into a very grown up smile. “As soon as I could, I got him alone on the train and he told me that same sob-story about the lung disease.” Her face falls into a sad and self-reproachful expression. “I told him that I was the better fighter but I didn't want to kill him. He said… he said that he wanted to die a heroic death in front of all of Panem.” She forces a watery smile, hopefully convincing the unknown thousands that she hadn't rejoiced in his murder. “But now…”

“Now, what?” prompts Caesar and she almost rolls her eyes at his gullibility.

“Now, I wonder if he volunteered because he knew the Capitol doctors could heal him. They can work such miracles.” Her finger-tips fly to the one bundle of scar tissue left on her body and then trail down her jaw-line before sweeping up to rest over her lips.

“Well, I guess we'll never know,” beams her interviewer, slapping his knee. “So, would you categorise him as friend or enemy?” She lets her hand drop back to her lap and grins at the camera, her head slightly on one side.

“You know, I'm still not quite sure.” Caesar takes the moment to segue into discussing the Career Pack and her assessment of each one. She's marvelling at Glaucus' stupidity in murdering his ally, when there's a commotion at the elevator door and she looks up to see that President Snow has just entered. She breaks off in the middle of a comment about the boy's inability to count and raises one, perfectly hairless, arm to wave at the old man with a warm smile. In fact, her whole face lights up as though she has just caught sight of the one person in the whole world she most desires to see. The president's answering smile is amused as though he recognises her behaviour for the act it is. “Sorry,” she says, returning her attention to the camera and Caesar. She uses her left hand to push the cascade of chestnut hair behind her right ear before continuing. “President Snow just joined us.” She gives a girlish giggle. “That's one of the things about winning that I still can't quite believe – last night I was at the president's mansion and, now, he's right _here_! I never thought… well, now, I get to meet all of the most famous people in Panem.”

“You _are_ one of the most famous people in Panem,” Caesar tells her with a chuckle that he directs at the camera.

“Yeah… I suppose…” She giggles and twists a lock of hair around her finger before, apparently absent-mindedly, sucking on the end.

“So, you think Glaucus killed Tadia because he thought you were all dead?”

“I think he must have done,” she answers with half a shrug that pushes the breast on that side so far up it almost pops out of her dress.

“Really?” he says as though begging for a juicy morsel of gossip. “Because I heard a _rumour_ that he was rather friendly with young Mr Barjon.” She answers with an uncomfortable laugh and rolls her eyes up to the ceiling.

“Where did you hear that?! He did have lunch with Gaspar and me on the first day of training but… well, the Gamemakers could tell you that Gaspar was no friend of Glaucus'.” Her mentors and President Snow give her an assortment of approving smiles beneath eyes that glint with varying degrees of delight. There isn't much left to the interview – Caesar doesn't prod her re-action to Darnell's death and she wasn't involved in killing Proc but he does want to discuss Viatrix.

“Tell me,” he says, leaning in close to her. She draws back, her nose wrinkling as though she's just caught a whiff of some terrible smell. “What did you feel when you killed Viatrix?”

“It was…” Her eyes unfocus, her smile goes dreamy and she forgets about antagonising Caesar. “It was the most perfect moment of my life. When I turned around and saw her… it was like the rest of the world just fell away. It felt like it was just her and me and my knives… When that first one slammed into her leg, it was like all the angels in heaven were singing…” After a moment of rapture, she remembers herself and laughs. “Listen to me, I sound quite blood-thirsty! It wasn't like that with most of them – Viatrix was a special case.”

“Yes, of course,” beams Caesar. “She killed the boy you loved.” Iristina decides to take the opening and, for the first time in the entire interview, looks her lover straight in the eye.

“Yes, she did.”

_I_

Caesar wraps up the interview and then the red lights atop the various cameras go out. Iristina stands up abruptly, so that his eyes are on a level with her sternum and there's barely an inch between their bodies.

“Thanks,” she says to him with a flat intonation and the least smile she can muster. While he's still swallowing hard and trying to formulate a response, she's walking past him and around the end of the sofa to accept the praise of her entourage. She makes her way through them as swiftly as is polite and eventually washes up in front of President Snow. She smiles at him, tremulous and breathless with her attitude entirely girlish and her dress looking like it might slip to the floor at any moment. He's surveying her with his arms crossed and his weight leaning away from her. She can hardly say she's sorry that he's not attracted to her but this would be easier if he was taken in by her. “Gaius!” she calls out, still breathless and girlish.

“Yeah, dearie?” the old man asks, hobbling up.

“Is there somewhere the president and I can talk? Private, like.” Old man Thell looks between her and Snow and she notices that his nod of assent only comes after he's received one from the statesman. He leads the way to the bedroom corridor and is half-way down it before he realises that there is a silent battle of wills occurring between the pair who are meant to be following him. It started innocuously enough – President Snow had gestured for her to proceed him and she shook her head with a polite smile and non-verbally insisted that he go first. She's certain that he wants her to go first for the same reason she wants him to proceed her – she doesn't trust him at her back.

“Yer a-coming, dearie?” calls Gaius and her head jerks up. She clocks his observant stance and then casts a look across the rest of the assembly to ensure that they're not paying this piece of burlesque too much attention. She concedes the point with as much grace as possible and saunters past the president to join her eldest victor. “This'n my room. Has a desk, chairs, whole shebang.”

“Ta very much,” she says, darting in to kiss the elderly victor on the cheek. The old man flushes crimson and leaves them to it.

“Should I be worried about you seducing me?” asks President Snow, once he has shut the door. With her back still to him, Iristina rolls her eyes.

“You are the one who just locked us in, should I not be the one questioning your intentions?” She turns to him, her mask dropped and her arms crossed.

“I think we'll make this whole situation a lot simpler by agreeing not to lie to each other.”

“I have no intention of lying to you,” she answers with an equal amount of prevarication and evasion. He chuckles and leans back against the closed door, she suppresses another eye-roll and allows her weight to fall back against the wardrobe.

“It has been quite some time since I met a victor who understood how the Games are played.”

“While I thank you for the compliment, I doubt that's why I'm here.”

“You need not speak with the Capitol speech patterns–“

“I always do,” she informs him, flatly. “I hadn't used the gutter-talk of District 9 for five years before I came here and met Gaius Thell. He had an unfortunate effect on the accents of both myself and my district-partner.” He steps away from the door and her spine snaps to attention in response.

“Can a man not cross the room without you wishing to run from it?”

“My apologies, Mr President. It is as you said last night – I'm not quite out of the arena yet.” He tuts at her.

“You promised not to lie to me.”

“It's not a _lie_ ,” she answers with a half-smile and he smirks at her.

“Tell me, how are relations between you and our Mr Flickerman?” he inquires, picking over the ornaments on the desk. She considers him, carefully, and decides to risk a little circumlocution.

“Do you know why I volunteered?”

“They tell me you want to live in the Capitol, Miss Emmer.” She hates that name but she's not going to let Snow see that, certainly not at that moment. “Yet, you claimed to love District 9 so much.”

“And I claimed that Gaspar Barjon was my best friend when he was, in fact, my greatest bully,” she replies with a sardonically raised eyebrow.

“Your greatest bully?” he inquires, looking up from the notes in front of him. “Not the only one?”

“I was a street urchin, a beggar; a lot of kids bullied me.”

“Yet, you do not look like an urchin.”

“Not now,” she agrees with a sigh. “But it's not because some nice family took me in.”

“No, it's because you killed a bear.” She had known that would come up when they went to interview people in the district.

“Yes, although the money from that would have only lasted a few months.” He gives her a look that instructs her to continue. “There are people in the Capitol who enjoy the thrill, the _glamour_ of sleeping with a victor.” He neither confirms nor denies this, so she doesn't try to draw the parallel to her current relationship with Caesar Flickerman. “Well, in District 9, there was a man who liked the glamour of sleeping with The Bear Girl.”

"Krill," he comments and her heart skips a beat.

“Y-you know? The whole Capitol knows?” She staggers and catches one of the bedposts to stop herself from collapsing to the floor.

“I did not know,” he raps out harshly at her and, at once, she's on the alert again, spinning to fight him.

“I may look like a child to your eyes but I'm not.” She straightens and looks him in the eye. “President Snow, I am a very _good_ whore and I have been for _many_ years.”

“That was your arrangement with Krill?”

“It was very simple: he gave me food, a home, clothes and, in return, I gave him sex. It was rather like a marriage, except I never dared to defy him for fear he might throw me back onto the streets.”

“So, volunteering for the Hunger Games was an act of defiance.”

“No!” she assures him, vehemently. “I wanted– _want_ a better life, a life in the Capitol, and winning the Hunger Games seemed like the only way to get it. If you let me live in the Capitol, you will be able to sell me all year round,” she added in a rush.

“Does a life in the Capitol mean so much to you that you would do anything to get it?”

“It has all the beauty, art, clothes, food and music that I could desire. That's going to be my talent, by the way, music and composition, which are not things I can learn out in District 9." She levels her gaze with his and drops her voice in pitch. "I've just killed four children and assisted in the murders of a further four in the _hope_ of living in the Capitol, so sleeping with people for the reality of it…”

“And how do you see Caesar Flickerman fitting into these plans?”

“I don't,” she answers, not bothering to dress it up. “Our arrangement was much less clear-cut than that I had with Krill. However, I only gave him what he wanted so that he would be 'on my side' during the Hunger Games and would be partial to me in his commentary. He doesn't know that, though.” President Snow perches on the edge of the desk and considers her.

“Do you know, Miss Emmer, I have never met a victor – especially, a female victor – who is so relaxed or so mercenary about human relations?”

“I'm not surprised,” she answers in a hollow voice, suddenly feeling immeasurably tired. “I have been selling my body for over five years.” That makes him sit up and take notice.”

“Krill–“

“No, he didn't take possession of me until I killed that bear when I was 16. No, I started by selling myself for a warm meal or a bed on a stormy summer night.” She rubs at her eyes. “I have done a lot that I'm not proud of and my actions in the arena were not the worst of it.”

“So, you truly understand what it means to say that you will do anything to live in the Capitol?” She nods. “Very well. You may live in the Capitol… but not until _after_ your Victory Tour. For this next year, you must remain in District 9.”

“OK, sir.” She drops her head and almost falls on her knees to kiss his shoes. “Thank you.”

“Good day, Miss Emmer," he continues, drawing his coat more tightly around him. "The odds have, indeed, been in your favour.”

“Thank you, Mr President," she replies, lifting her head and blasting him with her perfect masking smile. He answers it with an amused smirk that she can now see is no more real than the expression currently on her own face. The president leads the way across to the door, unlocks it and gestures for her to leave first. “Your turn, don't you think?” He chuckles, claps her on a bare shoulder and proceeds her on their way to rejoin the others. She waits until he's in the corridor before releasing the shiver that had built up in her skin at his touch. He is taking his leave of those important enough to warrant his attention when she emerges into the seating-area but, masking smile firmly in place, she walks straight into Siprian's arms. “Take me to bed,” she breathes against his ear. He looks at her in surprised horror but then catches the soul-deep weariness in her eyes.

“Oh, OK. But we have to be on the train–“

“Then, take me to the train,” she groans. “Rian, I can't stand any longer.” He nods and turns to give orders for their departure, using his one free arm to gesticulate wildly. As he pulls it from her grasp, she staggers and almost falls to the ground but a pair of truly strong arms lock around her.

“I've got you. You're safe.” She closes her eyes and allows Cai's voice and scent to fill her whole world.

 


End file.
